


Scion of the Empire

by Jaina_Pridemoore



Series: Sith!Leia [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alien Biology, Barrissoka melodrama, Basically Leia is Space Azula, Emotional Manipulation, F/F, Found Family, Inquisitor Barriss Offee, Luke Skywalker: the Original Space Twink, M/M, Multi, Padmé Amidala Lives, Past Abuse, Rebel Queen Padmé Amidala, Sith Leia Organa, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:14:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 19
Words: 84,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22980811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaina_Pridemoore/pseuds/Jaina_Pridemoore
Summary: Darth Ravous is the most powerful woman alive. She is the daughter of the hero who vanquished the Jedi, the apprentice of his Imperial Majesty, unstoppable on the battlefield, and poised to inherit the greatest war machine in galactic history.As for the family situation... well. She's working on it.OR: A New Hope, if Leia was raised by Palpatine.Featuring Rebel Queen Padmé Amidala, Inquisitor!Barriss, Rugged Badass Ahsoka Tano, and Luke 'Doesn't Know How to Talk to Boys' Skywalker
Relationships: Barriss Offee/Ahsoka Tano, Mild Luke Skywalker/Han Solo
Series: Sith!Leia [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1651534
Comments: 90
Kudos: 234





	1. Prologue

**15 BBY**

  
  
  


The wind howled like a plummeting fighter, drowning out all other sound but that of the millions of grains of sand slicing through the air, blocking out the sun, scouring the flesh from any creature foolish enough to be caught without shelter— 

And they were many. 

The bones of innumerable sentients covered the ground, humans and bothans and wookies and twi’lek and rodians and togruta, all lying where they’d fallen. Their dying screams carried on the wind, _feeding_ the sandstorm— pain and fear and hate all blending together into furious, _ravenous_ pleasure, cruel and insatiable, devouring all the deserts heat…

But not all its light. 

There in the distance was a single point of luminous blue-white, glowing through the hungry dark. 

Ben staggered towards it. 

The further he went, the harder the storm lashed at him, pushing him this way and that, leeching the warmth from his body and soul, screaming in his ears—

— _Promise me you will train the boy_ —

— _I’ve loved you always_ —

— _The remaining Jedi will be_ **_hunted down and defeated_ **—

 **—** **_I hate you!!_ ** **—**

And then there was quiet. 

Not silence, for the howling of the wind was behind him, around him, but distant, held back by the light… 

Kyber. 

There in the eye of the storm stood a great shard of Kyber, not glowing but _refracting_ — the light of the twin suns shining down from above, bloody red and soft blue mingling within the crystal, and casting strange, shifting shapes across the ground. He stepped closer, and peered into the multifaceted depths.

A hundred figures moved within, walking and fighting on a hundred worlds, surrounded by faceless enemies, luminous allies… but as Ben watched, as he opened himself to the storm and the screams and the light, two figures emerged from the many. Here they held hands, there they fought, but always they orbited each other, all that chaos caught in the gravity of their dance, their battle, their serenity and their fury and their love—

Ben Kenobi woke with a start, heart pounding in his chest. 

Beige walls. Dust and machine oil. 

His hut. The Jundland Wastes. Tatooine. 

He slumped back down onto the sheets, and breathed deep. 

He supposed he should be pleased that all his meditation was bearing fruit… but _karabast._

The bones, the screams, the darkness, that was nothing new… but the crystal, the figures, the duo… 

The _twins._

Why now? He’d been meditating almost every day for the past four years, and every one of those days, Luke had been safe on the Lars’ farm.

Had something changed? He hadn’t felt any disturbance in the Force… but that didn’t necessarily mean anything— it seemed like the Force was _all_ disturbances, these days, all grim echoes of the Empire’s crimes, rippling across the galaxy… 

All while he hid here, too sad and broken to… 

_No._

_None of that, Ben._

He took a deep breath, and held it for eight heartbeats before slowly releasing it— and with it his self-loathing, his despair… 

_Emotion, yet peace._

_Chaos, yet harmony._

All was not lost— he was still connected to the Force, and with enough clarity to receive vivid, meaningful visions. 

He just had to figure out what that meaning _was_. 

He just had to figure out what had changed. 

By the time the sun rose, he was shrouded in a cloak, the cool morning air whipping at his face as he sped across the desert. 

  
  
  


*****

  
  


Ben was by no means an expert on hives of scum and villainy, but he was far from a layman. A few too many undercover missions had seen to that. And as hives of scum and villainy went, Mos Eisley was among the more wretched he had waded into. 

Which made it an ideal place to catch up on current events. 

The spaceport’s diverse denizens only played Imperial news to mock and dissect it. There was _some_ truth in it, if you read between the lines— but more numerous were the pirate channels, the rebel frequencies, and the many, many rumor mills. 

Subtly projecting _I was never here_ into the Force, Ben ducked into the cantina, and found himself a nice dark corner. The smell of burnt Spice and liquor filled his senses, and beneath it the body odors of a dozen species, deeply ingrained in the synth-leather upholstery. If he breathed deep, which he was reluctant to do, he’d be able to smell the acrid aftermath of blaster fire from deals gone wrong. 

But better Hutt territory than Imperial territory. 

He leaned back against the wall, closed his eyes, and listened— past the Bith cyber-jazz, the chatter in languages he neither recognized nor understood… 

_—paying in Death Sticks, not credits—_

_—Brooonaughhh rruug rrruo—_

_—bounty’s up after that mess on the salt flats—_

_—_ _Udesii, vod. Tion'ad hukaat'kama?_ _—_

_—latest news from Alderaan—_

_There._

He trusted in the Force, and opened his eyes. 

A few meters away, a trio of drunken Rodians sat in a poorly-lit booth, half-watching a holoscreen. On it was a pale human woman in dark, austere imperial attire, hands folded before her, with a chaotic scene superimposed beside her _—_ moving bodies, fire, the ghostly white of stormtroopers… 

Ben slipped out of his corner and carefully approached, until he could hear the anchor’s voice clearly. 

_“—third day of dangerous unrest following a brutal terrorist attack on the royal palace—”_

_What?_

That made no _sense_ _—_

_“—among the dead were Queen Breha Organa, her husband Senator Bail Organa, and their infant daughter Leia.”_

Ben’s blood ran cold. 

_“Although no one has yet claimed responsibility for the attack, many believe this was retaliation against the royal family for their unwavering support of the Empire—”_

_No!_

Surely the people could see that Bail and Breha meant to spare them an Imperial occupation _—_

_“—Imperial forces are deploying to restore order to the historically peaceful Core world—”_

_Force have mercy._

This… this _couldn’t_ be. The twins were such bright lights in the spreading darkness, surely he would have _felt_ if one of them… 

Oh. 

Oh no. 

He _would_ have. He’d held them both in his arms, he’d _know_ if one died. 

_Leia._

They’d found her. She’d shown some sign of Force-sensitivity and they’d found her, _taken her,_ killed the Organas for hiding her and blamed it on rebels… 

Ben forced himself to breathe, to not radiate his panic through the Force _—_

Palpatine had her. 

_Darth Sidious_ had her. 

_Emotion yet peace, chaos yet harmony, death yet the Force—_

He slumped against the wall, legs suddenly weak. 

Sidious would destroy her. He would take all that potential and pervert it, twist that dear sweet girl into _another Vader—_

He barely made it to the back alley before his stomach emptied itself. 

He forced himself to breath deep and hold it, to let it out slowly, again and again… 

The vision. The duo.

The _dyad._

Luke. 

If Leia was to be reforged in darkness, reforged into a _weapon…_

The balance needed to be protected, now more than ever. 

He had to train the boy. 

  
  


  
*****

  
  
  


“Absolutely _kriffing not.”_

“Owen _—_ ” Beru laid a hand on her husband’s arm. 

_“No._ You brought him here to keep him away from all this!” 

“And we’re _grateful_ to you for bringing him to us, Ben, but the Jedi…” Beru sighed. “They took Anakin, and they never gave him back.” 

“I know.” Ben leaned forward and rested his forearms on the table between them, pouring his sincerity into the Force. “I’m not asking to take him from you.”

“Aren’t you?” asked Beru. “We _know_ what the Empire does— if you make him a Jedi, he’ll want to go and _do_ something about that.”

Owen’s frown deepened. “He’ll fly off and get himself killed is what he’ll do!” 

“And he couldn’t do the same here?” Ben asked. “Tatooine grows more lawless by the day _—_ but if I train him, he will be more than a match for any slaver or brigand.” 

Owen sat back, arms crossed. “I said _no_ , Kenobi.” 

Ben did his best to keep the worry and frustration off his face. 

He glanced around the dining alcove, and then out across their circular courtyard… to where a domed cleaning droid buzzed across the ground. It was an old model, pre-Clone Wars, and easily one hundred kilos… 

Yes. That would do nicely. 

Ben reached out with his hand and with the Force, and gently lifted the droid into the air. Then, with his other hand, he plucked their three cups of tea off the table, and made them slowly orbit each other.

Owen lurched back, away from the display _—_ but Beru just watched, eyes wide with awe. 

“This,” said Ben, “is the result of many years of training to achieve control and restraint. The same power, _untamed_ , can be as dangerous as any sandstorm or Imperial strike... and just as obvious to those who know how to look for it.”

That got Owen’s attention. He narrowed his eyes, gaze flicking between the floating mugs and the man levitating them. 

“You brought him here to protect him from all this,” he said again. “To keep him _safe.”_

“I did. But…” Ben sighed. “Luke will be stronger than I am. Stronger than I _ever_ was. With the abilities he will soon show, he will have the power to save billions of lives.” 

Neither farmer said anything, at that. 

They were oddly still, in fact _—_ Owen’s expression tense and vexed, Beru’s worried, conflicted… 

Ah. 

Ben put down the mugs, and the droid. 

“He’s already shown them, hasn’t he?” 

A muscle twitched in Owen’s jaw. Beru leaned forward, elbows on the table, head bowed in thought. 

“We’re going about this all wrong,” she said, “aren’t we?” 

Owen looked sideways at her. 

“This… _thing_ he was born with… we can’t choose for him.”

“Beru…”

She shook her head, a placating hand on Owen’s crossed arms. “This should be _Luke’s_ choice to make. Once he’s old enough to understand, and _only_ once he’s old enough to understand, _then_ you make this offer again, Ben Kenobi _—_ and you abide by his decision, ” 

The slightest weight lifted off Ben’s shoulders, at that. He could breathe that much easier. 

Feeling suddenly tongue-tied, he nodded. 

“That’s… you’re right, of course.” 

Perhaps if Anakin had more of a choice, if it wasn’t a choice between the Order and _slavery—_

 _Later, Ben. Think about it_ **_later._ **

“It is Luke’s choice to make.” 


	2. The Apprentice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First Sister gets an unpleasant surprise.

**9 BBY**

**Nur, Mustafar System, Outer Rim**

  
  
  


The shuttle shuddered as it descended into the troposphere. 

First Sister gripped the x-shaped straps of her flight harness, and braced herself. 

It hit her like a silent scream _—_ concentrated, cumulative rage and pain and despair, all but drowning out the quiet song of the fully-crewed Star Destroyers orbiting above. 

She drank deeply of it. 

Torture, re-education, _training_ — these were the grim necessities, the few suffering beyond what any sentient should have to endure so that the many could know stability and peace.

She _hated_ it… and that hatred was her savior, her clarity _._ It burned away all the doubt, all the hesitation, all the _weakness,_ put fire in her blood and focus in her mind. 

As long as she hated what she had to do, she was still sane. 

That was more than most of the others could say. 

Another shudder, as the ship touched down. 

The moment the boarding ramp was extended, she was out, striding across the landing pad toward the dagger-shaped black spire of the Fortress Inquisitorius. 

For once it _wasn't_ raining, and she had a clear view of the sky— the stars, the swirling clouds of Jestefad, the volcanic glow of Mustafar… 

She wondered, sometimes, why they hadn’t build the Fortress there. Even from three planets away, Vader’s death echoed in the dreams of anyone who managed to sleep here— she could only _imagine_ how strong the Dark Side was at the actual site of his demise. 

Not that it was lacking here. 

She could feel the others gathered below, their frustration and rage distinct from the general aura of despair. 

So she _wasn’t_ the only one who’d had her hunt interrupted by the sudden recall. 

Just a few hours later, and she would have had three lightsabers on her belt instead of two. If Seventh Sister had managed to catch her prey in time, she was going to be even more insufferable than usual. 

The blast doors rumbled open before her like a black durasteel maw, spilling dim red light onto the platform. Twin ion cannons tracked her as she entered. 

And then there were the screams. Wails, really, of agony and despair, carried up from the processing level by the ventilation system, and in the process taking on a distorted, metallic quality. 

First Sister inhaled pain, and exhaled hatred… but the Dark Side didn’t rush to her, didn’t _fill_ her like it should.

No… 

It was concentrated far below, leashed and bound by hatred far deeper and more ardent than her own. 

Maul was here. 

First Sister did not break stride. She did not falter, did not hesitate, did not even tense. 

There would be pain. There would _always_ be pain. It was set in stone, and fear in the face of the inevitable was _useless_ . A waste of energy. Especially when the pain fed the anger and the hate, and pulled her further into the dark. The Dark Side made it all easier, the hurting and the killing and the killing and the _killing…_

Better to be the hunter than the hunted. Better to be an addict than a corpse. 

The doors of the lift hissed shut behind her, and with the press of a button, she descended into the depths of the Fortress. 

Towards Maul. 

Why was he here? More _training?_ More disciplinary action? He’d tightened their leash more than once since whatever punishment the Emperor had inflicted on him for Second Sister’s failure… but a full, immediate recall? 

This was a first.

Ten years of doing the Emperor’s bidding did nothing to dull the sudden, piercing fear. 

The scars on her chest itched and ached, and her long-healed tibias throbbed with phantom pain. 

All from _Maul._ The Emperor’s _failed_ apprentice, a failure on Naboo and a failure on Mandalore, good only for spreading pain and misery— 

One day he would weaken, one day he would _slip_ , and she would be there to catch him. 

With her saber. 

She would cut right where prosthetics met flesh, _right_ where the Sithkiller did all those years ago— and when she had him there, at her mercy, she would slowly, methodically demonstrate _everything_ a medical professional could when forced to embrace the Dark Side. 

Burning, murderous hatred chased the chill from her bones… and not a moment too soon. 

The lift doors hissed open onto the harsh light of the training salle. 

Sure enough, they were all there. 

Eighteen Inquisitors stood in two perfect rows on the gridded floor, all clad in the same drab, minimalist uniforms, their featureless black helms customized to the accomodate the skulls and sensory organs of their species. 

All near-human, of course. 

The Grand Inquisitor stood in front, facing them, hands clasped behind his back. 

A cold, sultry voice slithered through the relative silence. 

“How gracious of you to finally join us, Number One.” 

Seventh Sister. 

With an extra saber on her belt. 

Wonderful. 

“I’m afraid it takes time to traverse half the galaxy.” First Sister marched forth and took her place at the end of the front row. “The price of a larger hunting ground, I suppose.” 

She smirked at the note of ire that escaped Seven’s shields. The other Mirialan knew all too well how far ahead of her First was— in terms of training, in terms of accomplishments, in terms of confidence earned… 

_“Enough,”_ hissed the Grand Inquisitor. 

First Sister mirrored his posture, eyes forward on the saber-scarred wall of the training salle. 

“You are wondering why Lord Maul has recalled us from our respective assignments.” 

The Force growled with the frustration of a dozen thwarted hunts. The bloodlust coming off Sixth Brother and Ninth Sister was almost palpable. 

“I am at liberty only to disclose that he issued the recall on behalf of another.” 

All that frustration turned to fear, too sudden and acute to be concealed. 

For if it wasn’t _Maul_ , then… 

“Beyond that,” said the Grand Inquisitor, “I know only that introductions are in order.” 

A pneumatic hiss filled the room. 

Behind and above him, the transparisteel of the upper wall split down the middle and slid apart, revealing the observation gallery that overlooked the room… just as the blast doors that granted entrance opened as well. 

The sound of metal striking metal echoed through the training salle, again and again. 

The footsteps of their torturer. Their handler. Their Lord. 

First sister inhaled fear, inhaled memories of agony and despair, and held the resulting hatred in her chest, let it set her blood aflame and sharpen her senses, and stood firm. 

The artificial light shone palely on wicked horns. Red and black tattoos flexed and shifted over wiry muscle as the Sith strode to the edge of the platform, and glared down at his Inquisitors with baleful yellow eyes. The durasteel talons that served as his feet clamped down on the platform’s edge with a brief, sharp screech. 

First Sister stood firm. 

Maul didn’t like complete reverence, complete obedience— he considered it a sign of weakness, the physical equivalent of begging. 

Then another figure stepped up beside him, and First Sister repressed a flinch. 

She hadn’t _felt_ anyone else in the Force— no hint of emotion, not even the passive, silent song of a null… 

But here they were. 

Their shape was near-human beneath their heavy cloak, no montrals or horns distorting the shape of their hood. They barely came up to Maul’s chest, but First didn’t know if that was a sign of their species or simply their… 

A small, pale hand reached up, and slid the hood back. 

_...age._

The girl was human, and couldn’t have been more than ten standard years old… 

But she could have been another Dathomiri by how pale she was, could have been an Inquisitor by the scars on her jaw, lip, and nose, could have been a prisoner by how short her hair was buzzed— 

And her eyes were pure, livid Sith yellow. 

First Sister’s entire being tensed up. 

Next to the rise and fall of Maul’s muscled torso, and the almost avian twitch of his head as he surveyed the Inquisitors, the girl was dangerously still, moving nothing but her unnatural eyes. 

No motion. 

No Force presence First could feel, even now, mere meters from her.

To conceal oneself like that… 

This girl must have been training her whole life. 

She looked directly at First Sister, then— and something buried deep within the Inquisitor screamed for her to flee. 

She stood firm. 

Maul turned to a console beside him, and extended one tattooed arm to press something. 

“Inquisitors.” His low, quiet drawl wasn’t nearly as menacing as usual. Not with _her_ beside him. “You have been ranked in order of your skill with a lightsaber.”

Names and numbers appeared on the holo-display of First Sister’s visor. 

She was ranked fifth. 

Good. 

Not even Maul had noticed how much she was holding back. 

“You will fight her in this order.” 

_...what?_

First Sister refocused on the platform just in time to see the girl shrug off her cloak. 

Beneath it was a skintight bodysuit of thick black nanoprene, identical to those the Inquisitors wore beneath their uniforms and armor, interrupted only by a segmented metal belt and blastweave kama. 

A single lightsaber hilt hung from that belt, sleek and grey. 

She stepped over the edge of the platform and fell halfway before slowing, floating down to land gently on the floor. 

The Grand Inquisitor stepped aside. 

The rest stepped back, and away— save for the first Inquisitor on the list. 

Eighth Brother stood alone in the middle of the room. 

“Sabers at 50%,” said Maul. 

Eighth Brother drew. Twin blades hummed to life, half-intensity still enough to cast a crimson glow upon the darkness of his uniform. He sank into a low stance, and held his saber high— Vaapad, the most aggressive of the Forms. Maul had insisted they all learn it, had _taught_ it to them… 

Was the girl his student as well? 

If so, why keep her separate?

First Sister backed up until her shoulder blades met the wall. 

Unhurried, almost _casually,_ the girl reached down and twisted the dial on her saber, reducing its power… but not igniting it. 

She just stood there, weapon held idly at her side.

First Sister still couldn’t feel her. 

Eighth Brother shifted his weight back and forth, adjusting his footing, and sank deeper into his stance. 

The girl didn’t move. 

He surged forward, a mass of incendiary rage in the Force, steps quick as blaster-fire, blades searing spinning streaks through the air toward the girl’s head—

Her saber ignited directly into his solar plexus.

He jerked, the second-degree burn to the nerve cluster sending an involuntary spasm through his body, and choked gasp echoed through the room. She was already spinning out of reach again, not even watching as he staggered forward, clutching at the wound as if he _had_ been impaled. 

She turned off her lightsaber. 

First Sister still couldn’t feel her. _Hadn’t_ felt her, not even for an instant. 

For a moment, Eighth Brother lingered, his mind catching up to what just happened, how she had slipped inside his guard so quickly, how quickly he would have been _dead_ were the dial on her weapon even a few turns to the right… 

Then he straightened up, and marched to the edge of the room. 

His name disappeared from the list. 

Twelfth Brother stepped onto the mat, long legs bearing him to its center in a few quick strides. 

As a Trandoshan, he stood two heads above human standard— and _towered_ over this girl. 

First Sister idly wondered if he realized how much of a disadvantage that was going to be.

The Jedi Order’s greatest warriors were all long dead; the big lizard’s reach and brute strength was more than enough for the frightened Padawans and worn-out Knights they typically hunted, and as a result he’d developed the tendency to use his lightsaber more like a bludgeon than anything else. 

But just because the outcome of the bout was obvious didn’t mean one couldn’t learn from it. 

Twelve ignited his saber, and advanced. Where Eighth had charged, he chose to walk, looming closer and closer… 

The girl’s blade hummed to life, held casually at her side, and she walked —no, _strolled_ out to meet him. 

Indignant rage pulsed out from him, and swiftly turned murderous. 

With a growl, he raised his saber and brought it down in a crushing blow—

The Force _roared._

Cruel, ravenous _hunger_ filled the room, so sudden and cold that Twelfth Brother faltered mid-swing. 

The girl _swatted_ his blade aside and leapt into a spin—

Twelve fell back, clutching at his seared throat. She landed soundlessly on the mat beside him, and pivoted twice to shed momentum before deactivating her saber once more. 

His name blinked off the list. 

First Sister’s heart pounded in her chest. 

The Dark Side _churned_ around the girl, a whirlwind of barely restrained bloodlust through which First couldn’t sense any of the others, even as she watched them flinch and stiffen, fighting their instincts just to stand still. 

Twelve scrambled back before he caught himself, then leapt up, and backed away from the girl with his head bowed. 

That strike… though near-perfectly executed, it was basic Ataru. And before, against Eighth Brother, using her small frame to simply slip past his guard… if First Sister had to categorize it, she’d say Makashi— but neither duel had been _long_ enough to really draw meaningful conclusions. 

Ninth Sister, to her credit, barely hesitated before marching into position. 

Even larger than Twelfth Brother, the Dowutin also relied on her sheer size and strength, but from their admittedly few missions together, First knew her to at least be _slightly_ more thoughtful than him… 

Still, she’d always been the brawn to Second Sister’s brain— until the latter went soft and got herself killed, at least. 

_What a waste._

First staunchly ignored the whisper of jealousy in the back of her head. 

Ninth Sister, perhaps thinking of how the girl slipped past Eighth’s guard, chose to ignite both blades of her saber… 

And then she waited. 

Behind the featureless shell of her helmet, the faintest smirk pulled at First Sister’s lips. 

All the brutal _lessons_ Maul had inflicted upon them to burn away their mercy and restraint, to reforge them into weapons of relentless aggression… and it only took two brief duels for common sense to prevail. 

That slight spark of vindication steeled First against the freezing pressure of the girl’s presence. 

For a long moment, the girl watched Ninth wait. When the hulking Inquisitor didn’t move, her brows furrowed, and her cruel amusement vanished, burned away by smoldering, impatient rage. 

With three quick steps, she launched herself forward through the air, saber igniting overhead and flashing _down_ —

Ninth blocked with her right blade and turned with the force of the blow, left blade streaking forward only to slice through empty air as the girl ducked and leapt forward again, as she forced the massive woman to backpedal to save her face from searing plasma—and the instant she blocked high, the girl went low, very nearly slashing one shin before Ninth could deflect. 

She’d been trained for speed over strength, and to take advantage of her smaller size. 

Just as First Sister had been.

The girl didn’t let up for an instant, driving Ninth back across the floor with relentless, lightning-fast strikes. Even with two long blades, it was all the Dowutin could do just to defend herself— and soon even that wasn’t enough, the very tip of the girl’s saber catching blastweave and the skin beneath, leaving welt after smoking welt on the Inquisitor’s trunklike arms and legs—

Then her blade passed right through the middle of Ninth’s hilt, and vicious pleasure echoed through the Force— only to sour as the girl remembered that half-power wasn’t enough to burn through durasteel. 

Ninth seized her chance, snarling as she hammered her saber into the girl’s guard over and over, blades crackling and sparking. The girl skipped back, legs bent, and Ninth surged forward—

Only to slice air once more as the girl rolled between her legs and slashed her from groin to gut. 

Ninth grunted, reflexively hunching forward, and left herself open to a blow that would have severed her legs in a real fight. 

Her name blinked off the list as she fell to her knees. 

It continued much the same. Those that dove head-first into the darkness surrounding the girl were swallowed by it, those that relied too much on brute strength left themselves open to swift, ruthless counterattack, and the ones smart enough to exercise caution only invited her frustration, and were brutally beaten down. 

Overall, she was relentlessly aggressive without being sloppy about it, brutal without being sadistic, and her sheer speed covered for the resulting gaps in her defense. 

She was _exceedingly_ well-trained for her age… and not by Maul. 

He was no longer the Emperor’s apprentice— only the Master of the Inquisitorius, and no more. The Emperor would kill him if he even _thought_ about taking a true apprentice of his own… 

Even with hatred warming her, a bit of cold fear began to slip past First Sister’s guard. 

In the end, of course, a child was a child, no matter how well-trained. For all that her size and speed were an asset, she was up against highly athletic, battle-hardened adults— she just didn’t have the endurance. 

Each bout was closer than the last— Seven kicked her in the chest and grazed her arm before taking a slash across the belly, Fifth left an angry red burn across her scalp before she dented his helmet with her elbow and stabbed him in the chest… 

She was panting when he staggered away, her pale brow shining with sweat.

And then it was First’s turn. 

She inhaled fear, and burned with hatred. 

What _was_ this? Having them all brutalized, just so some core-world brat could practice murder? The Inquisitorius was supposed to be _exempt_ from the anthropocentrism that infected the rest of the Empire. 

Where had _she_ been these past ten years, while First hunted down the Jedi too devoted to their corrupt, _dead_ Order to accept reality? What did _she_ know of hard choices, of _sacrifice?_

First Sister would _not_ be replaced by this— this _whelp._

This whelp… who had yet to demonstrate any sort of defense.

First ignited her saber, and charged— right into a surge of bloodthirsty excitement. 

The girl met her halfway, _grinning_ through their blade-lock, vicious joy in her yellow eyes. 

First spun away, slashing low to seize distance, only for the girl to flip overhead and land behind her. First parried once, twice, and struck at the girl’s momentarily-exposed side— she blocked, of course, and for an instant First was left wide open, and the Force roared _hunger—_

Then she snatched the trophy saber off her belt. 

The girl leapt back just in time to avoid being caught on the activating blade, and First gave her no time to recover. 

She pressed forward with well-practiced, fierce Vaapad, never going a heartbeat without another strike, high and low an left and right, forcing the girl to defend. Her single blade seared crimson streaks in the air, arcing back and forth as she deflected red and blue and red and blue, her small body twisting and pivoting back across the floor, kama flaring out around her—

Their sabers cut red-hot scars in the floor, spat sparks, and crackled like broken droids— 

And with each strike, each backstep forced, the girl’s fury swelled, until the very air seemed to reverberate with murderous intent. 

First didn’t let up. She lashed out at every angle, striking and blocking in the same breath, darkness rushing hot through her veins, sharpening her senses to precision. 

And finally, the girl had enough. 

With an snarl, she pushed forward, slamming her blade against First’s with brutal force, batting them away so she could lunge for her torso— 

And overcommitting. 

First slashed across the girl’s elbows as if to sever and spun into a decapitating strike. 

One instant her blade was humming toward the back of the girl’s neck. 

The next she was shoved into the air and _slammed_ against the wall so hard her helmet cracked _,_ all the air suddenly crushed from her lungs, arms and legs pinned— 

The girl stood before her, one hand raised like a claw, pale face twisted into a mask of feral _hatred_ — 

First Sister couldn’t breath. She could hear her pulse rushing in her ears, and through it, distant and muffled, Maul’s voice— 

_“Enough!”_

Her visor cracked once, twice, and her helmet began to warp— 

_“I said_ **_enough!”_ **

Something in her chest _popped,_ her vision blurring— 

**_“APPRENTICE!”_ **

The crushing pressure vanished as quickly as it had come. First fell forward, landing hard on her hands and knees as she gasped for air. 

_Apprentice._

**_Sith_ ** _Apprentice._

And if it wasn’t Maul who had trained her…

Karabast. 

First tore off her helmet, baring her flushed face to the cool air and taking deep, ragged breaths...

And she realized it wasn’t just the pressure that had vanished, it was the girl’s _presence_ as well— gone as if it had never been here, never filled the room, never set everyone’s hindbrain screaming… 

And with it gone, First could feel the others once more, their fear and confusion and impotent rage. 

She looked up. 

All eighteen Inquisitors were kneeling before the Emperor’s Apprentice. 

Maul stood beside her, arms crossed. 

“Inquisitors,” he said, “Darth Ravous is in need of… _diverse_ methods by which to further her training. Diverse sparring partners, diverse challenges, diverse _prey…_ in this, you will heed her words as if they were my own.” 

_“_ **_Yes, Master!”_ **

Then there was silence. 

The almost painful _thudding_ of First’s heart, the slight rasp to her breath, the quiet hum of the Fortress’ systems… 

And at last, Darth Ravous spoke. 

“Rise, First Sister.” 

A shiver ran unbidden down First’s back. 

No child‘s voice should be so flat and cold, at odds with its high pitch. 

First Sister stood, and looked upon her Lord. 

Ravous was smiling up at her, stretching the scar that notched her upper lip. Without blazing sabers between them, First could see the blood red rings around the yellow of her irises, could see the dark bags under her eyes—

“You don’t remember me, do you?” 

Her voice had softened, had _warmed,_ and once First Sister recovered from the shock of that, she wracked her brain— a child trained since she could walk, so found as an infant, _apparently_ by her, roughly ten standard years ago… 

Oh. 

Leia Organa. 

Something clenched in First Sister’s chest, something not quite fear… 

The name given was _Ravous._ She knew better than to utter a different one. 

So instead, she simply said: 

“Alderaan.” 

_“Alderaan.”_ The tiny Sith spat the word like a curse… but then smiled once more. “You _saved_ me that day, Inquisitor. You rescued me from traitors and terrorists, you brought me to our Master... and I never even got to thank you.”

First Sister stood as straight as she could with the ache in her ribs, and clasped her hands behind her back. 

“The work is its own reward, Lord Ravous.” 

“Yes… but it need not be the _only_ reward.”

She had a bad feeling about this.

“The rest of you.” Ravous never looked away from her. “Return to your duties.” A faint smirk curled her lips. “The first one to kill a Jedi may make one request of me.” 

Combined with her wide, yellow eyes, it made her look… unhinged. 

“Go.” 

They didn't need to be told twice. Every other Inquisitor rose and left as quickly as they could without broadcasting their fear. 

That was the Beskar lining of this place— it was so saturated with fear and pain that a dozen more terrified sentients barely altered its wretched song. 

Only Maul remained, standing disinterestedly at Ravous’ side. 

The girl looked First Sister over, gaze lingering on the lack of tattoos on her cheeks. 

When she spoke again, it was the softest yet, almost… _reverent._

“It’s an honor to meet you, Barriss.” 

First Sister tried not to stiffen. 

She failed. 

Bowed her head. 

“Barriss Offee is dead, My Lord. There is only First Sister, now.” 

Ravous tilted her almost-hairless head to one side, like a deadly little loth-cat. 

“Why?” She asked. “The others, I understand. They _needed_ to be melted down and reforged… but _you?_ Barriss Offee was the first Jedi to truly see what the Order had become, the first to _act_ on it. A hero of the Empire, before the Empire was even born.” 

First Sister swallowed against the sudden tightness in her throat. 

“You honor me, My Lord, but it is my duty to obey Lord Maul’s decree on the matter.” 

The darkness growled a warning. Another shiver ran across her traitorous skin. 

“Lord Maul is _your_ master, not mine.” Ravous’ voice was cold and hard again— “I answer _only_ to the Emperor... and I will call you what I wish.” 

“Of course,” said First Sister. 

Those hellish eyes watched her for another moment, open wide as if to take in as much of her flushed, helmet-haired visage as possible. 

First Sister held herself very still. 

“It really is lovely to meet you,” Ravous said at last. “You’ve always been an inspiration to me... and I am here to reward you for it.” 

First Sister knelt once more. 

If it was more to avoid looking at that too-young face than out of subservience… no one had to know. 

“You honor me,” she said again, for lack of anything else to say. 

“I do.” Motion. Nanoprene on blastweave, on metal… “The ISB believe they may be closing in on an old friend of yours, Barriss.” 

What? 

First Sister glanced up. 

The girl was holding out a datachip. 

“Six years ago today,” she said, smiling, “you saved me from the Rebellion. Now I give you the chance to do the same for Ahsoka Tano.” 

First’s heart thudded in her chest. 

How long had it been since she’d heard that name? How long had it been since she’d seen that _face?_

Eleven years? Twelve? 

She knew Ahsoka had left the Order— Luminara had told her as much, during her single visit to that prison, and Barriss Offee’s naive heart had leapt to hear it. Then came the crushing, choking pain of the Purge, and the thought that Ahsoka was no longer a Jedi, that she might have survived, that Barriss had _saved_ her, was the only light in that darkness. 

And now… 

Now she understood. 

Ahsoka was strong and skilled, and so determined… 

But none could stand against the Empire.

Sooner or later, she would die— unless First Sister could turn her.

Whether that meant recruiting her outright or bringing her back to be convinced… 

It wouldn’t be easy for either of them— but to save Ahsoka’s life? To have Ahsoka _back,_ to finally make things right between them? 

Yes. 

**_Yes._ **

“It will be done, My Lord.” 

“Good!” The tiny Sith chirped. There was something _wrong_ about her smile. “I hope to spar with you again soon, Barriss. We’ll see how I do when I _haven’t_ just worked up a sweat destroying your siblings.” 

With that she turned and strode out of the room. Maul followed close behind. 

It was as if a weight had been lifted from the very air… but First Sister still couldn’t breathe easy. 

For the first time in years, she felt sick to her stomach. 

Little Leia Organa, so young and soft, so _bright_ in the Force… 

For the first time in years, kneeling there in the haunted depths of the Fortress, First Sister wondered: 

_What have I done?_


	3. A Certain Point of View

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben Kenobi gives his apprentice the Talk.

**9 BBY**

**Jundland Wastes**

  
  
  
  


For all of Tatooine’s… _discomforts_ , the night sky was breathtaking. 

Even after a decade of living here, he still got lost in it. Here on the Outer Rim, the galactic plane seemed a pathway across the sky, innumerable stars clustered together in one luminous band. 

Well worth the freezing cold of a desert night.

Luke sat cross-legged on the opposite side of the fire, bundled in Ben’s spare cloak, eyes closed in concentration. 

Two head-sized stones floated in the air between them, slowly circling each other. 

“Good,” said Ben. “Feel how they push and pull on each other, however subtly.” 

The boy’s eyes were closed, brows furrowed with effort, hands fisted in his lap. 

“Breathe. The Force is not a beast to be tamed; it is the current in which we swim— and, when necessary, channel.” 

Luke’s small torso swelled as he inhaled. He un-clenched his hands. The slightest bit of tension bled out of his shoulders. 

The stones circled.

Ben smiled. “Very good.” 

“You were saying?” The ten-year-old asked. “About lightsabers?” 

What? 

Oh. Right. 

Kriff, the years _were_ catching up to him… 

“Yes,” said Ben. “Walk into any cantina in the Galaxy, say _Jedi,_ and people will look for a lightsaber. And with good reason— we were all over the holos during the Clone Wars, waving them around, striking down enemies of the Republic, lighting the darkness…” Ben sighed, and stroked his beard. “The symbol of the Order. But the Order is gone, and in the end, a lightsaber is just a tool.” 

“What?” Luke’s youthful face scrunched in confusion. “But they can cut through _anything_. They can deflect blaster bolts.” 

The stones wavered slightly, but didn’t fall, or stop circling. 

“Focus, Luke. If I gave you a stick and threw rocks at you, could you deflect them all?” 

Luke frowned. “I don’t know about _all_ …”

Ben smiled. “Next time you come across a holo of some Jedi knocking away blaster fire, play it back slowly.”

“But there _are_ no holos like that— I’ve looked. I think the Empire destroyed all of them.” 

Ben did his best to ignore that old ache in his chest. “Humor me, apprentice. If you somehow found such a holo, and played it back slowly, you would see the Jedi move _before_ the shot is fired.”

“So… intuition, aided by the Force?”

“Something like that.” 

The boy pursed his lips. Ben could feel his curiosity, the same keen, analytical interest with which he approached malfunctioning droids and broken engines… 

“That’s enough, Luke. You can relax.” 

The stones fell to the ground with two dull _thunks._

Ben suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. “A little more carefully next time, yes?” 

The boy had the good manners to look sheepish… and Ben’s foolish old heart ached to see it. 

That look was all too familiar. 

He wasn’t sure, sometimes, how much of Anakin he really saw in the boy, and how much was simply the natural impatience and impulsiveness of youth. 

He simply hadn’t known enough children this age to tell. Ahsoka had taken after her Master in that respect, but Ben suspected that may have mostly been Anakin’s influence, and the degree to which the young Togruta idolized him. 

And if Luke _did_ take after Anakin…

Owen and Beru hadn’t let him choose this path until he turned seven, three years ago now. That said, he was free of the underlying trauma that had so influenced his father’s life… 

Ben just hoped that would be enough. 

The boy had his moments of patience, of serenity, and possessed an emotional intelligence that was all Padmé, even before he’d been attuned to the Force. 

He certainly had Anakin’s competitive streak, but Ben wasn’t so sure about real warrior spirit… and that kept him awake at night. 

At the end of the day, he wasn’t _just_ training Luke to preserve the Jedi ways. 

The boy would have to face his sister one day— and if he was to survive the encounter, he would need the martial skill to defend himself, and the Force training to withstand the Dark Side. 

“Ben?”

Luke was peering at him, bright eyes worried. 

Ben took a deep breath. 

_Emotion, yet peace._

“Yes, Luke?” 

The boy frowned, but let it go. “What’s with the lightsaber talk? You’ve never really told me about them before— it’s always the Force this, the Force that…”

Ben smiled. 

Luke always seemed to sense his pain, yet never pressed, never prodded. 

Given how curious the boy was, it spoke well of his patience. 

“Without the Force,” he said, “a lightsaber—“

“Is just a tool, I get it.” 

Never mind. 

“I am telling you,” said Ben, “because the time has come for you to learn how to use one.” 

The boy’s excitement was like a magnesium flare. 

“Luke.” 

“Sorry.” He ducked his head and quickly shielded again, muffling his presence in the Force, but not concealing it entirely. 

Ben didn’t know the names or numbers of Palpatine’s Jedi-hunters, but he knew they existed, even if he couldn’t sense them through the darkness that had settled over the galaxy… and he could imagine their skillset.

So concealing his presence had been one of the first things he taught Luke. He was by no means a master of it himself, but hopefully, by the time Luke’s training was complete… 

Hopefully they would _have_ that time. 

Without further ado, Ben reached into his cloak, and pulled out Anakin’s lightsaber. 

Luke’s eyes went wide. 

“This belonged to your father. He wielded it throughout the Clone Wars, through many trials…” 

_—you_ **_will not_ ** _take her from me!—_

“And now it is yours.” 

The boy leapt to his feet and stepped around to fire to kneel before Ben, reaching out for the weapon— only to catch himself at the last second, and slowly, reverently wrap his hands around the hilt. 

The instant he touched it, a faint crease formed between his brows. He stared down at it for a moment, at the firelight dancing over the metal casing… 

And then he looked up at Ben, a pensive expression on his face. 

“Tell me again?” He asked. “About my father?”

Ben rubbed his beard, and tried to breath through the ache in his chest. 

What had Luke sensed? That saber had been through so much, even before… 

Before. 

Ben supposed it didn’t matter. 

If Luke was to fully understand his place in the galaxy, if he was to understand the true danger of the forces with which he must contend… 

Ben had kept the truth from him long enough. 

He didn’t regret it, not really— it was a hard truth to hear, and one that Luke wouldn’t have understood when he was younger. 

_Obi-wan_ hadn’t understood, not really. He’d needed time, _distance,_ and the benefit of hindsight. 

There was so much he’d overlooked, so much he hadn’t seen, or _chosen_ not to see… 

He took a deep breath. 

“Your father,” he said, “was a deeply troubled man.”

Luke sat down and crossed his legs, lightsaber cradled in his lap. 

“Even as a child, he was strongly attuned to the Force— just as you are. But by the time we found him, my Master and I, he had been a slave for the first nine years of his life, alongside your grandmother.” 

“I know.“ Luke smiled. “People still talk about how he won the Boonta Eve Classic, and used the winnings to buy his own freedom! And then he left, with you and the other Jedi. Kai… Kwai-something?”

“Qui-Gon Jinn,” said Ben. “My Master.” 

“Uncle Owen says Grandma Shmi used to talk about it all the time when he was my age.” Luke looked down at his father’s lightsaber. “I think he’s kinda sour about it. Her always going on about her other son, who wasn’t even around…” 

Ben watched him turn the hilt over in his hands, examining its outer casing. 

“Your Uncle Owen has never been a slave.”

Luke looked up again.

“He doesn’t understand the mark it leaves on people.” Ben tapped the side of his head… even as the old scars on his back itched. “Inside.”

If Luke sensed how much more there was to that statement, he didn’t press it. 

“Your father had no control over his life, back then. No control over how he was treated, or _mistreated_ — and he was valued only for the work he was forced to do.”

“But then he became a Jedi!”

Ben sighed. “We took him away from that life, yes… but we also took him away from his mother— the only person who had ever shown him affection." 

Luke frowned. “Why _didn’t_ you help her, like you helped him?”

Ben hesitated, then. Even now, the shame threatened to steal his voice, and the boy was such a bright light, ignorant of pain and suffering… 

He had to look away. 

“We didn’t have the credits.” 

For a moment, there was only the crackle of the fire, and the low whistle of the midnight wind over the desert _—_ and Ben’s mind rushed to fill the silence.

“You must understand, we were in the middle of mission, charged with protecting your mother from very dangerous people— and our ship was damaged, stranding us on a planet that didn’t accept Republic credits. My Master skillfully manipulated the situation, but in the end, it was your father who saved _us.”_

He looked at Luke again, and found him staring down at the lightsaber, brows furrowed, confusion radiating from him. 

As a resident of Hutt space, the boy was well aware of the explosive methods by which slaves were leashed. He understood why they couldn’t help his grandmother… but Ben could feel the longing in him. The sense of missing something he never really had. 

“By the time the Naboo Crisis had been resolved, by the time your father had been formally inducted into the Jedi Order, Cliegg Lars had already freed your grandmother.” 

Luke chewed the inside of his cheek. “Why didn’t he ever visit?” 

Another gust of wind rushed over them, cold and bracing. Ben pulled his cloak tighter around himself. 

“The Jedi Order would not allow it. They forbid relationships such as that between a mother and child.” 

“What? Why?”

“They… _we_ believed that such strong emotional attachments were particularly dangerous to Force-sensitives. That combined with the inevitability of loss, they would lead to fear, pain, and anger.” 

“And feed the Dark Side,” Luke murmured. 

“Yes.” 

“But… wasn’t he attached to my mother?” 

Ben’s heart skipped a beat. 

“He was, very much so. So much that he risked his career as a Jedi by marrying her in secret. But I’m getting ahead of myself.” 

Luke sat up a bit straighter, attentive despite his confusion. 

“From Tatooine we flew to Coruscant, which was then capital of the Republic. There we brought your father before the Jedi Council, the governing body of our Order. Though they saw that the Force was strong with him, they decided that he was too old and too fearful to be trained as a Jedi. One moment, your father’s dreams were dashed— the next they were rescued, when Qui-Gon Jinn vowed to train him.” 

“...what happened?” 

Ben sighed, a bittersweet smile curling his lips. The boy was perceptive. 

“Only days later, Qui-Gon was slain by a Sith Lord. Your father gained a heroic guardian, only to lose him just as quickly.” 

A faint ripple of sadness escaped Luke’s shields… tinged by anger. 

Ben had long since told him of the Sith— it had been necessary, to properly explain the Empire. But Luke’s understanding was basic, and vague. 

And it was Ben’s duty to change that.

“With his dying breath,” he said, “Qui-Gon made me promise to train your father. And though I did not feel ready for such responsibility, it was a promise I had to keep.” 

“But you said my father was a great Jedi— so you must have done a great job of teaching him.” 

Once again, Ben had to avert his eyes from the tiny star that was Luke Skywalker. “I’m afraid the truth is not so simple. I was grieving my Master when I became your father’s, and in traditional Jedi fashion, I coped with it by releasing my emotions to the Force. But your father had not been raised a Jedi, like I had. He had been raised by a warm, caring, compassionate woman. To him I must have seemed cold, aloof… _unkind,_ even. So he sought kindness and warmth elsewhere: in the woman who would be your mother… and in the man who would one day be Emperor.” 

Luke’s eyes went wide. “But he’s _Sith.”_

“We did not know that at the time. Palpatine masked his power completely, hiding in plain sight. He played the part of a kind, compassionate mentor to your father… and for it, your father came to trust him deeply. I'd like to believe that he and I shared such trust as well, as brothers-in-arms, but the War... demanded things, of us. Things that damaged that trust, that pushed him away from me, and towards Palpatine." 

Luke didn’t seem to know what to say to that. His gaze flicked back and forth across the gritty ground between them as he struggled to parse all the new information. 

“Have your aunt and uncle told you,” Ben asked, “how your grandmother died?” 

Luke nodded. “Tusken Raiders.” 

“The Force granted your father a vision of it. A warning, perhaps, but from half a galaxy away… he didn’t arrive in time to make a difference.” Ben hugged himself a bit tighter. “She died in his arms, and in his grief and anger, he lashed out at her murderers.” 

Again Luke looked up, eyes wide with shock… and grim understanding. 

“...wait,” he whispered. 

Ben laid a hand on the boy’s head, gently brushing some sand from his hair. 

“You know of it, don’t you? The Ghost Village.” 

“...my father did that?” Luke’s voice was small. Confused. 

“He did,” said Ben. “He killed every person in that village, armed or not… down to the children.” 

“No.” Luke shook his head, dislodging Ben’s hand. “That— that’s not possible. You said my father was a Jedi Knight— a _hero.”_

“And he was. Feel the Force, Luke. Search my feelings. Am I lying?” 

Slowly, hesitantly, Luke closed his eyes. 

The furrow between his brows deepened, as did his frown, and Ben felt distress begin to overtake him. 

“I don’t understand,” he said at last. 

“Neither did I, at the time. I did not even know, not until your Uncle provided me with the clues, years later. In his guilt and shame, your father hid it from me. He buried those feelings deep inside himself— along with the belief that his mother’s death was somehow his fault. That he wasn’t fast or strong enough to save her. But locking such thoughts and feelings away does not get rid of them, Luke. Like any wound, they must be tended to— or they will fester.” 

The boy was silent. Staring at the ground between Ben’s feet. 

“Not long after, in the midst of the chaos and suffering of the Clone Wars, your father had another vision. A vision of _your_ mothers death.” 

“What…” Luke swallowed. Wet his lips. “What did he do?” 

“It’s…” Ben weighed his words carefully. “It wasn’t what _he_ did, precisely…”

And Luke —sweet, perceptive Luke— saw right through that.

“Ben…” he leaned forward, looking up with pleading eyes. “What aren’t you telling me?” 

Karabast. 

Ben’s mouth was dry, all of a sudden. 

His hands shook as he uncapped his canteen, and drank deeply of the warm tea within. 

“Palpatine,” he said, and then stopped. Considered. “Palpatine, who he trusted more than anyone, told him that he had a way to save your mother.” 

He felt the moment Luke’s confusion and fear flared. The moment they became denial.

“...no.” 

“Luke, you must control your feelings.” 

_“No.”_ The boy leapt to his feet, hands fisted at his sides. “You said my father was a _hero_ —” 

“Luke. I am trying to tell you the truth. _All_ of the truth, for the first time. Please, release your feelings to—” 

“Then _tell me._ Just tell me.” 

Ben looked down at his hands. “The Jedi… we told Ana— _your father_ to let go of what he feared to lose, but he loved your mother too fiercely for that. When he was overcome with fear that she would die, when he felt too weak to save the woman he loved, it was Palpatine who offered him power, the power of the _Dark Side—”_

_“No—”_

“—in exchange for his service.” 

Luke stepped back, shaking his head, his father’s lightsaber clenched in one hand—

“It was Palpatine who gave him his new name—” 

_“Stop!”_

“Darth Vader.” 

The denial ignited into anger. 

“You _lied_ to me?” 

“Luke—”

“You told me Vader _murdered_ my father!” 

“He _did.”_ Ben stood up, ignoring the ache of his knees, of his heart— “Your father attacked the Jedi Temple, Luke. The place that had been his home, the people that had been his family— he slaughtered them _all,_ from elderly archivists to _children,_ and what was left of the heroic, compassionate Anakin Skywalker _died with them_. From then on... there was only Vader.” 

For a moment look just stood there, breathing hard, emanating angry, confused distress—

And then his gaze snapped up, and met Ben’s. 

“This is because _you_ killed him.” 

“Luke _._..”

“I’m right, aren’t I?” He glared. “You couldn’t deal with the fact that you _murdered_ him, so you _—_ you pretend that you didn’t! That it was someone else, and not _your_ apprentice that did those things!”

It may as well have been a punch to the gut, for the way it knocked the breath from him. 

Ben’s shoulders slumped, and suddenly standing was too much. He all but fell back onto the supply crate he’d been sitting on. 

“Yes,” he said. 

Luke’s anger evaporated like untrapped dew. 

“Yes. I…” he swallowed, throat dry as the desert around them. “I have drawn a line between them, I… I have chosen a truth that lessens the pain. But Luke…” he looked up, and found the boy's eyes wide, uncertain… “You have to understand, there was so much your father never _told_ me. I knew there was _something_ between him and your mother, but I never even suspected they were married, much less _expecting._ There were things that he hid from me for fear of my judgement, acts of desperation and rage, throughout the War. And toward the end, we were on different sides of the galaxy. When he needed me most…” 

Ben’s hand was clenched in the robes over his chest before he remembered the pain wasn’t physical. 

His face was wet. 

He hung his head. 

“When he needed me most, I wasn’t there.” 

Then Luke was on his knees, his smaller hands finding Ben’s. Squeezing gently. 

His concern felt like sunlight, warming the old Jedi’s wind-chilled frame. 

“What happened then?” 

Ben made himself take a deep breath, and squeezed back. 

Closed his eyes against the tears. 

“Then I found out. Then I… I found _him,_ tracked him down, and…” 

_Force, have mercy on me._

“...then you killed him.” 

“Not so quickly. I didn’t go there as an executioner, Luke— _please_ believe that. I went there as—” 

As what? His Master? His brother? 

“A friend.” Ben wiped the sleeve of his cloak over his eyes. “I tried to reason with him, but…”

“It was too late.” 

Ben nodded. “We fought. So long, we fought, but at last I…"

_—you underestimate my **power—** _

"—bested him. He was lying there, in so much pain, and in that moment I wasn’t thinking of the Republic we had failed, or the Empire that was rising. Only Anakin."

**_I hate you!!_ **

"He was in pain. He _was_ pain… and I couldn’t bear to see him suffer any longer. So I ended it.” 

With that he fell silent. His throat hurt. 

Once more there was only the crackle of the fire, the gentle light of the boy before him, and the soft glow of the stars above. 

Then Luke stood up, and hugged him. 

All the strength went out of him in an instant. He might as well have just run a marathon.

It was all he could do to wrap his arms around the boy and squeeze back. 

He wasn’t sure which one of them was shaking. 

Neither of them spoke again, that night. 

Ben needed to rest, and Luke… Luke needed time. It didn’t take the Force to sense that much. 

By the time they parted, his arms hurt as much as his throat. As much as his heart. 

Luke walked him back into the house, strong and steady even as his thoughts and feelings churned like storm-clouds. 

This boy… 

Ben would prepare him for the coming storm if it was the last thing he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost done with the lead-up— just a few more scenes before the (altered) events of A New Hope.


	4. Shadow

**7 BBY**

**Dantooine - Outer Rim**

  
  
  


“Why didn’t you _wake me?”_

“Wasn’t a red alert, Sir.” The Mandalorian stood fast before his General’s ire, unfazed. “Kaf?” 

For a moment, Padmé glared up at him. 

Then the warm, earthy scent of the drink reached her nose, and a shiver ghosted over her cold skin. 

She snatched the mug from his hands and sat gracefully on one of the munitions cases against the wall. 

She knew he was just as worried as she was… but unlike her, he was _raised_ a soldier (insofar as one could really call the Kaminoan slave production process an upbringing), and the comparative informality of the Rebellion wasn’t enough to break those habits, not even after a decade. 

His perfect posture, the neutral expression on his face… 

Only his sharp focus on the med bay doors betrayed his true feelings. 

Padmé wrapped her hands around the warm mug and inhaled deeply of the glorious, bitter steam before asking: 

“How bad is it?” 

A muscle pulsed in his strong jaw. He didn’t look away from the doors. “I’ve seen worse.” 

“That doesn’t answer my question.” 

“...middling.”

“Rex…” 

“She’ll be fine, Sir. You know how she likes her scars.” 

Padmé couldn’t help the dull pang she felt at that. Her role didn’t often overlap with Fulcrum’s, and their reunions were infrequent; it was still hard for her, in moments like these, to see the fierce woman Ahsoka had become, rather than the child soldier she’d known during the Clone Wars. 

Kriff, it was cold in here. Why couldn’t they have found a cave system closer to the equator? 

She looked down at the dusty duracrete of the floor, and raised the mug to her lips. 

So of course Sula Tau chose that moment to walk out of the medbay. 

“General.” The Kaminoan bowed their head, the motion exaggerated by their long, pale neck. “Commander.” 

“Doctor.” Padmé forced herself not to stand too quickly, mindful of the piping-hot kaf. “How is she?” 

“Better than expected. It seems she lost consciousness due to pain and shock— not life-threatening injury.” 

“I don’t understand, why—?”

“Her left montral was severed.”

Padmé’s heart lurched in her chest. 

“I’m afraid there is no equivalent human sensory organ,” said the Doctor, melodic voice utterly neutral. “Suffice to say, losing one is both intensely painful and highly disorienting.” 

“Tau.” Rex’s voice was tight. 

Their wide, dark eyes flicked back and forth between the two. “She asked.” 

He glared for a moment, then looked away with a huff. 

Tau made a flute-like humming sound in their throat. “Miss Tano will be perfectly healthy in short order.” 

“You _just said_ she _lost a montral—”_

“And I have taken a tissue sample to begin cloning a replacement.” The faintest note of exasperation entered voice. “I have not worked with Togruta cells before, but I have successfully replaced species-specific sensory organs in the past. She is awake, by the way.” 

Padmé suppressed the urge to lecture them on pack-bond psychology and bedside manner (again), and strode swiftly into the med bay. 

Two quick turns brought her to the recovery room— really just a corner of the reinforced cavern with a curtain for privacy. One hand white-knuckled on her mug, Padmé slipped past, and… 

_Oh stars._

Ahsoka looked like she’d been thrown out of a speeder. 

She sat on a cot, half-propped up on a mound of pillows, bacta-wraps covering her right thigh, bicep, and shoulder. Her left eye was swollen shut, the skin around it a mess of blood orange and purple, and her montral… 

It was a bandage-capped stub. 

She met Padmé’s gaze, and a faint, tired smile curled her lips. 

“Hey, General.” 

Even her voice was rough. 

“Oh, _Ahsoka…”_ Padmé couldn’t cross the room fast enough— she left her mug atop some large medical machine, and sat on the side of the cot. 

“I’m alright.” 

She didn’t _look_ alright. The dull look in her eye, the bags beneath… 

“Ahsoka… they said these were saber burns.” 

The Togruta looked away. 

Padmé took her hand, and softened her voice. 

“You’ve defeated Inquisitors before. What happened?”

It took her a moment to answer. Her brow-markings slanted down, her jaw clenched… 

“I was naive,” she bit out. “And I paid for it.” 

What? 

Padmé squeezed her hand, hoping to get her to look up, to no avail… and a sinking feeling came over her. 

The last time she’d seen Ahsoka like this, it was because the Empire had gotten to a group of Padawans before she could. 

This was _personal…_ and the Inquisitors were mostly former Jedi. 

“You knew them?” 

Ahsoka closed her good eye, face creasing with frustration. 

When she spoke, her voice was quiet. Hard. 

“You’d think that after ten years of fighting the Empire, I wouldn’t let this sort of thing get to me.” 

Bitter. 

Padmé couldn’t stand it. Slowly, gently, she nudged the Togruta’s chin up. 

“After ten years of fighting, you still have a _heart._ A strong, _compassionate_ heart. That is _nothing_ to be ashamed of, Ahsoka.” 

The wounded warrior took a slow, shaky breath. A tear slipped out of her good eye. 

Padmé couldn’t help but embrace her, as firmly as she could without hurting her further. 

One of Ahsoka’s hands slid up her back. Her other arm encircled Padmé’s waist and pulled her close, clinging fiercely as her battered body shook and shuddered. 

The scent of disinfectant and bacta filled Padmé’s nose. She closed her eyes, and gently rubbed the blade of Ahsoka’s uninjured shoulder, back and forth… 

“Barriss,” the warrior whispered. 

Oh. 

_Oh no…_

“It was _Barriss.”_

Padmé hugged her tighter, but Ahsoka loosened her grip, forehead falling to the General’s shoulder. 

“I could feel her anger. Her pain. So much _pain._ And she talked to me as if we were still friends back in the Temple, like she was _happy to see me._ She thought…” —another shuddering breath— “She thought she’d be _saving_ me by taking me to— to be _mutilated_ into another Inquisitor. She said she’d already saved me once, that by framing me she’d shown me the truth about the Jedi, and…”

Ahsoka sighed, and sagged against Padmé, as if all the strength had gone out of her. 

“I’m not sure she was wrong.” 

“Oh, ‘Soka…” Padmé pulled back, just enough to cup the Togruta’s bruised cheeks and brush away her tears. “You don’t believe that.”

Ahsoka didn’t say anything. Didn’t meet her gaze. 

“You’ve fought Inquisitors before,” Padmé said. “You’ve fought _Sith._ I may not understand the Force, Dark Side or Light… but I understand how power can corrupt people. How they invent all sorts of ways to rationalize their actions. Barriss was a healer, wasn’t she?”

Ahsoka nodded. “One of the best. One of the kindest.”

“I think a person like that would have to deceive themselves the most, to serve the Empire at all— let alone as an _Inquisitor.”_

Ahsoka took a deep, slow breath… and this time, didn’t shudder as she let it out. 

Then she let go of Padmé entirely, and sat up, bracing herself on her uninjured arm. 

Her good eye was clear again. Focused. 

“We need to contact the other cells.” 

Padmé blinked at the sudden shift. “What? Why?” 

“To warn them. The Empire has a new asset— someone high-ranking, someone Barriss mentioned as if they were a superior.” 

There was that sinking feeling again. 

“Ravous, she said.”Ahsoka’s gaze hardened. “ _Lord_ Ravous.” 

Ah. 

Kark. 

“She said they would reward me if I brought you in.” 

“You think…” Padmé swallowed dryly, and wet her lips. “You think they’ve been tasked with crushing the rebellion?”

Ahsoka’s brow-markings furrowed. Her good eye darted back and forth, mind racing… 

“I don’t know,” she said. “But I think we need to plan as if they have.” 

  
  
  
  


*******

  
  
  


**ISD** **_Devastator_ **

**Ord Mantell Orbit - Mid Rim**   
  


First Sister knelt on the cold durasteel floor, jaw clenched, breathing through her nose as she clutched her forearm… and staring at the cauterized stump of her right hand. 

_Focusing_ on it. The relentless, throbbing _sting_ of it, the superheated plasma she could feel even now—

—the way Ahsoka _looked_ at her afterward, as if she hadn’t matched her blow for blow, as if she was something to be _pitied_ —

Another wave of agony burned through her severed nerves, and First growled, rocking forward on her knees. 

Her saber hand. 

She’d lost her _saber hand._

They’d replace it with a mimicry, a _fake,_ a bundle of circuits _dead to the Force—_

All because Ahsoka refused her help. Refused to _see._

Chose _death_ over compromise. 

Chose death over _her._

The doors hissed open. 

First Sister went stiff. 

Bowed her head. 

Gripped her stump to hide the shaking. 

Ravous’ steps were all but silent, her presence a cold whisper in the Force… 

And yet First sister could feel her gaze, like a physical weight upon her battered, plasma-scorched form. 

The girl stopped a saber’s length away. 

First Sister stared at the floor, her entire body burning with pain and rage—

“Was she alone?” Ravous’ voice was dangerously flat. 

“No, my Lord— I cut down her insurgent contacts, but—”

That cold whisper became a silent, bone-deep _thrum._ “I did not send you to deal with nulls, Inquisitor. Was she the only Jedi?” 

_—I am no Jedi—_

“Yes, my Lord.” 

For a moment, Ravous said nothing. Her Force presence receded once more, a weight off First Sister’s chest, leaving only the sting, the rage, the subtle hum of the ship’s systems… 

And then the Sith offered her one small, gloved hand. 

First looked up. 

Ravous was slightly taller than she’d been, last they met, and some of the softness had left her pale cheeks. 

Her irises were just as venomously yellow as ever, and the crimson rings around them had grown, radiating across her eyes like bloody sunbursts. 

Several species had such colors in their eyes… and yet something about hers was instinctively unnerving, instinctively unnatural. 

Especially coupled with that kind smile. 

But First Sister had no choice. 

She _never_ had a choice. 

So she un-clenched her hand— 

_—her only hand—_

—from her forearm, reached up, and slid it into Ravous’. 

Then there was only pain. 

Every muscle in her body snapped taut as sudden, searing _heat_ tore through her. She couldn’t pull away, couldn’t scream, couldn’t even _breathe—_

And then it was over. 

First fell bonelessly, head bouncing hard on the unforgiving floor. Her muscles twitched and spasmed uncontrollably, pushing pathetic whimpers through her still-clenched teeth. 

The scent of burnt nanoprene filled her nose. 

It had been a while since she was last electrocuted. 

At least in the torture chairs, you knew it was coming. 

“Now that that’s out of the way…” 

Something touched her forehead, and she flinched away, which only caused another wave of painful spasms— 

“Oh, Barriss…” Ravous was crouched beside her, reaching out to gently brush the hair out of her face. 

First held herself as still as she could. 

“I’m so sorry,” the Sith murmured. “To have found her at last, only for her to refuse your help…”

The rage came surging back, feeding on her pain and flowing hot through her blood—

“She will _not_ escape me again,” she growled.

Ravous smiled… and this time there was no warmth in it, no kindness. 

Just hunger. 

“No,” said the Sith. “She will not escape _us._ We’ll save her _together,_ Barriss.”

First Sister’s jaw clenched in fury. 

_This_ was her ploy, _this_ was why she’d sent her after Ahsoka _alone_ — Ahsoka who was trained by _Skywalker,_ who had fought Maul and lived, who had slain multiple Inquisitors already—

Ravous _meant_ for her to fail. For her to come back defeated in more ways than one, left vulnerable to the illusion of concern, of _kindness._

Maul was a relic. A _failure,_ who only survived because the Inquisitorius needed direct oversight… 

And the Emperor’s new apprentice was here to replace him. 

But for all her power, Ravous wasn’t the one who had forged the Inquisitors, who had bent and broken and re-trained them like hunting hounds; subtler methods would be required to steal their loyalty. 

And First Sister’s poorly-hidden desire to _dissect_ the half-droid bastard wouldn’t be enough to exempt her from the game. 

Every Inquisitor had fantasized about killing Maul at some point. 

So with her remaining hand, First Sister pushed herself up onto her knees, and bowed low before the Sith-in-training. 

“Thank you, My Lord,” she said. _“Thank you.”_

Cold fingers carded through the Inquisitor’s hair. Casually. Curiously. 

“Tell me what you learned, Barriss. How she talked, how she fought, how she _fled…_ tell me _everything.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was originally gonna write Barriss & Ahsoka's confrontation, but they're already gonna have some really juicy scenes toward the climax of this fic, and I needed to establish Ahsoka's relationship to Padmé & developed Barriss' relationship to Ravous. 
> 
> One more chapter before 0 BBY!


	5. Rites

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The training progresses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: torture, past child abuse

**5 BBY**

**Jundland Wastes - Tatooine**

  
  
  
  


_“Ugh!”_ Luke turned off his lightsaber, and frantically wiped a loose sleeve over his sweat-soaked eyes and brow. 

Which gave Ben plenty of time to close the distance between them and tap his low-powered blade against the boy’s sternum. 

“Kriff!” Luke jolted back. _“Really?”_

“You must always be aware of your surroundings. Your enemies will not hesitate to exploit an opening.” 

“I know, but—” he stopped himself. Breathed deep of the baking-hot air. “We just usually do this at _night.”_

“We _used_ to do this at night,” Ben corrected, “so that you could focus on learning the fundamentals. Now that you are proficient in the basic Forms, you must become comfortable using them in a variety of situations. You will not always have a choice of where and when you fight, Luke.” 

The boy frowned. “But— how many other planets even _get_ this hot?”

“Hundreds. As can starships, if their environmental controls go awry, or if they are damaged.” 

Luke huffed, but nodded, and resumed the opening stance for Soresu— feet wide apart, weight on his back leg, saber horizontal, free hand extended and pointing forward with two fingers… 

Ben raised his own blade… and while Luke was focused on it, he reached out through the Force and switched the training droid back on. 

Luke reacted marvelously, saber flashing up well before the little orb fired. The first few shots he deflected into the ground, the sky, or the canyon walls— but then his focus sharpened, and Ben had to step back to avoid a bolt to the foot. 

With a smirk, he darted forward and attacked, forcing Luke to split his focus and move twice as fast to avoid being stung or lightly burned. 

The boy slipped easily into the Makashi-Soresu blend that came so naturally to him, countering both assaults with smooth efficiency, no movement wasted. 

Until the laser-spitting little droid circled around behind him, at least. 

He lasted another few moments, saber whirling rapidly back and forth, but in the end Ben’s attacks required too much of his focus— a bolt struck him in the back, he tensed, and Ben slipped past his guard to deliver a smarting blow to his bicep. 

“Much better,” Ben panted. 

They both needed a break, after that. The sun was high overhead, turning the small canyon in which they’d made camp into a veritable oven. Even a lifetime of Jedi training didn’t make baking alive any more bearable. 

Ben retrieved their canteens from Luke’s speeder, and dabbed at his own face and neck with his cloak. 

The boy settled beside him under the flimsiplast parasol they’d taped to the side of the speeder, still rubbing his arm… and for the first time in many years, Ben’s mind strayed to an old enemy— one of several enemies, in fact, whom he would have liked to know as a friend. 

Asajj Ventress. 

Or, more specifically, the scars displayed by her typical choice of attire. Scars from blades of both metal and plasma, from blasters, blunt trauma, and lightning… 

He wondered how many of those scars were from Dooku. From whatever training he’d inflicted upon her. 

He wondered how many scars Leia had, now. 

_You’re growing maudlin in your old age, my friend._

Ben smiled. Even after all these years, his old Master’s voice was a balm on his weary soul. 

_I think I’ve earned the right,_ he replied. _Perhaps I should take up writing. Compose a tragic biography._

A feeling of warm, sympathetic fondness was all he got back. 

Beside him, Luke paused mid-sip. 

“Felt that, did you?” 

The boy’s brows furrowed. “What was it?” 

“One of the many mysteries of the Force.” 

Luke rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. 

Ben’s thoughts strayed once more to Ventress. 

She’d been tall, but slender— trained for speed over power, but still capable of fierce, overpowering strikes when provoked. 

To say nothing of the _other_ child of Dathomir he’d crossed blades with. 

And therein lay a critical problem in Luke’s training.

A swiftly as the boy’s lightsaber skills were improving, Ben just wasn’t capable of the kind of overwhelming force he would face from a conduit of the Dark Side. Their sparring would never effectively simulate such an encounter, and it would leave Luke at a disadvantage. 

He needed to fight smarter, not stronger. 

“Tell me, Luke..." 

“Hm?” The boy finished taking another gulp of water, and screwed the cap back onto his canteen.

“Have you ever played Sabacc?” 

  
  


*******

  
  


**Imperial Palace**

**Coruscant**

  
  
  


The throne room was dark, cavernous, and devoid of all life save for Master and Apprentice. 

There were no windows for assassins to enter through, no hidden corners for them to lurk in— only vaulted grey-black durasteel, great pillars half-fused with the walls, and the wide steps leading up to the Emperor’s monolithic throne. 

Ravous knelt at the foot of those steps, waiting with bated breath as her Master examined the trophy she had brought him. 

Luminara Unduli’s lightsaber shone dully in his gnarled hands, proof of her greatest victory yet— no matter the exact circumstances. Her training was not yet complete; surely he would understand her reliance on the Inquisitors, and recognize her skillful use of them. First Sister’s presence may have failed to unbalance the Jedi, but her combat skills had been the deciding— 

Disdain filled the room like an icy fog.

“You have shown _fear,_ my young apprentice.”

Ravous' breath caught in her throat.

“In the presence of an Inquisitor, no less. A _servant.”_

She stared at the floor, not daring to move. She was already kneeling; bowing lower would only show weakness—

But there was no _hiding_ from him— not the fear, not the shame, and not the anger that had overwhelmed her when the Jedi stood her ground. 

She forced herself to breathe against the weight of his disdain, to not waste effort wondering what form her punishment would take—

—lightning or telekinesis or mental agony—

She forced herself to speak. 

“I was the superior duelist, Master, but the Force was strong with—”

“Is the _Force_ your master, child?” 

Her heart slammed against her ribs. 

“Have I trained you to obey its will? To **_surrender?”_ **

She clenched her jaw and held her tongue, even as the lesson surfaced unbidden in her mind which he could _always_ read, no matter how strong her mental shields—

 _The Force is_ **_not_ ** _your ally; it is your_ **_weapon_ ** _. It is the mightiest of beasts, one you must leash and dominate, must bend to your will_ —

“Your objective,” the Master intoned, “was to _capture_ the Jedi. Her interrogation would have yielded the locations of other traitors, her reconditioning would have yielded a powerful tool… and now she is **_dead_ **. Explain yourself.” 

Ravous swallowed, throat dry, heart pounding. 

It took all of her training to speak clearly and smoothly, without faltering or wavering. 

“I lost focus, Master. Frustration overwhelmed me, I sacrificed control for brute force, and she exploited that. It was all I could do to hold her while First Sister struck the killing blow.” 

“My child…” his voice echoed gutturally off the vaulted ceiling, the grey-black walls— “you have only swum in the shallows of _what you can do._ Your passions make you strong… but if you wish to fully realize your potential, your _will_ must be **_stronger.”_ **

Ravous stomach lurched. He’d told her this already, so many times, drilled and beaten and burnt it into her— she shouldn’t _need_ to hear it again, was wasting his invaluable time by making him repeat it, was _unworthy_ —

“I understand, Master.”

Cruel amusement engulfed her.

 _His_ amusement. 

“No,” he said. “But you will.” 

A pale glow drew Ravous’ gaze up, to a holoscreen mounted on the wall beside Master’s throne— 

And a shrill, agonized scream pierced the still air. 

Human, she noted, and female. 

An interrogation cell. A non-standard interrogation cell, with two racks instead of one so that their occupants were forced to watch each other suffer… 

And Ravous _recognized_ those occupants. 

The female’s dark hair had been buzzed short, and she was gaunt and bruised, but that round face, those wide cheekbones, those almond-shaped eyes slamming shut as another shock wracked her smaller frame—

Yes. 

And the male— tall and broad and brown of skin, hairline receding and streaked with grey, and that beard… 

Breha and Bail Organa. 

The traitors that had somehow _acquired_ her. That First Sister had rescued her from. 

A hot thrill ran through her. 

Then another figure entered the frame— humanoid, tall and slender, bald head pale as their uniform was dark, and striated… 

The Grand Inquisitor. 

“You can end this,” he drawled, stepping closer to the ex-senator. “You can spare her _months_ of agony.” 

Bail said nothing. 

Another scream ripped out of the speakers as Breha arched against her cuffs, muscles involuntarily contracting from the voltage. 

“Name your co-conspirators.” 

He didn’t. Just turned his head away, eyes closed, breathing like _he_ was the one who’d just been shocked. 

Breha screamed again. Longer, this time, and louder. 

Then the voltage cut off, and she slumped back against the unforgiving duraplast, twitching. 

“Who else has conspired against the Empire?” 

Ravous saw a muscle flex in Bail’s jaw. 

“We will find them,” said the Inquisitor. “It is inevitable. But her suffering is not. Who else—”

“Too many to name.” Organa’s voice was hoarse, parched, but there was still steel in it. “You will _never_ subjugate this galaxy, the will of the people—” 

Breha didn’t scream, this time. She just snapped taut, steam rising from her skin, and Bail flinched, averting his gaze once more. 

Ravous wished she could see the subtleties of his expression, wished she could see if he was crying, wished she was there to pull the lever _herself—_

Breha went limp again. Twitched. Whimpered. 

“Perhaps we should start with something easier… ” The Inquisitor stepped away, pacing casually between the two. “Who are the child’s biological parents?”

...what? 

“I’m sure your Emperor already knows that.” 

“Oh, he most certainly does. But we like to be thorough. For _posterity._ Who are the child’s biological parents?” 

Bail said nothing… and the Grand Inquisitor sighed, as if disappointed. Turned to someone out-of-frame. 

“Administer the venom.” 

Bail’s head jerked up, eyes wide. _“No!”_

 _“Yes.”_ The Pau’an’s pacing brought him around to face the camera, and Ravous saw his thin lips pull into a sharp-toothed smile. “She will die slowly, _Senator._ Paralyzed inch by inch, neuron by neuron, unable to move, unable to do anything but _suffer…_ unless you—” 

“Anakin Skywalker!” Bail shouted. 

Ravous’ chest swelled with pride. This much, she knew: Darth Vader, vanquisher of the Jedi, a hero taken before his— 

“Her... _biological_ parents, they’re…” Organa hung his head. “Anakin Skywalker, and… and Padmé Amidala.”

Ravous froze. 

It was like she’d been plunged into bacta— she could barely hear past the blood rushing in her ears, the voices muffled and distant. The world narrowed to the screen, the Inquisitor, the _traitor_ lying—

—he _had to be_ lying—

Because Ravous had _watched_ Amidala’s speeches, had _studied_ them for hours on end, and had memorized the face of her enemy— the lines of her jaw and chin and cheekbones, the shape of her eyes, the arch of her brows—

She’d told herself it was just the studying that made those features so familiar— that plenty of humans shared such superficial similarities—

But the _Force._

Beneath her rage, beneath her Master’s amusement, somewhere deep within her… 

The Force whispered _truth._

The screen cracked down the middle. 

Flickered. 

Died. 

Then it shattered entirely as its frame was crushed. 

She wasn’t just adopted by traitors.

She was _born to one._

One who'd associated with Jedi, who must have known how powerful she would become— and had _given her away_ just to avoid drawing attention to herself. 

While she _led the Rebellion._

Ravous **_burned_ **. 

Electricity snapped between her fingertips. Starship-grade durasteel groaned, wrinkled, and cratered beneath her feet, all around her— 

_“Good…”_

Her eyes snapped up. 

The Emperor’s wrinkled face was pulled into a smirk.

Ravous' voice shook the air. 

**_“Why.”_ **

_Why didn’t you_ **_tell me?_ **

_Why did you_ **_lie to me??_ **

“My child…”

 _I’m not your child I’m_ **_hers_ **—

 _—I’m_ **_tainted—_ ** ****

“You were not ready for this truth.” His voice came softer, and with it his calming touch, slithering past her mental shields— “It would have distracted you, unbalanced you, but _now…_ this is your great trial, Ravous. Amidala is protected by a network of treachery, cowardice, and terrorism. She will stop at nothing to sabotage the Empire and throw the galaxy back into chaos. If you are to face this threat, you must **_use_ ** the Force— not allow it to use _you.”_

...yes. 

This was her trial. 

_This_ was her mission, the mission for which she’d trained all her life, harder than any soldier, harder than any _Jedi._

All the pain, the sacrifice and deprivation and mind-games... 

_Through Passion I gain Strength through Strength I gain Power through Power I gain_ _Victory_

Ravous seized all her fury, all her hatred, and **_focused._**

Lightning surged out of her fingertips, crackling across the room, igniting the very air—

The Emperor raised a hand, and turned it aside. 

It struck the floor and walls and ceiling, screens exploding in bursts of flame, acrid smoke filling the air, Sidious’ amusement radiating like silent _laughter—_

She stopped. 

The room was utterly ruined. 

Every surface bore red-hot scars, every screen and camera was a sparking, smoldering wreck… Only her Master’s throne was untouched. 

She felt the guards running before the doors hissed open— two, four, six of them dashing in—

Without moving, without turning, Ravous wrapped her power around their fragile skulls and _crushed_.

Their heads popped like grapes within their helmets, and they fell limp to the scorched floor. 

Then there was silence. 

Ravous’ heart slammed against her ribs. Molten rage coursed through her veins, roaring for escape, for vengeance— and she held it in. Breathed deep of the smoky air, the scent of hot metal and burnt electronics… 

_How's_ **_that_ ** _for control?_

The Emperor grinned. 

“Lord Ravous... you are ready.” 

Vindication burned like wildfire in her chest, and she wanted **_more—_**

“Go. Hunt down the Rebellion, burn away all traces of _defiance_ and _resistance_ … and perhaps, if you are ever strong enough to kill me, you will inherit an Empire at peace.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some strategic drama-bomb deployment on Sheev's part, here.  
> To clarify: Ravous knew who her dad was (or at least knew Palpatine's chosen narrative about who her dad was), but not her mom. Until now. 
> 
> And don't worry, Barriss lovers! The details of Luminara's death, Barriss involvement in it, and its *effects* on Barriss, will be explored in depth later.  
> Loosely, the arc for this series will be:  
> Part 1 - Who Ravous/Leia, Padmé, Barriss, Luke etc are because of their circumstances  
> Part 2 - *Why* they who they are (w focus on the shape of their trauma), and their paths forward  
> Part 3 - How healing/redemption begins for them
> 
> Next up: Battle of Scarif!


	6. Hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Kevin Hart voice*: It's about to go down. 
> 
> Inspo for Ravous' mask: https://www.deviantart.com/robwzor/art/Sith-mask-555038874  
> Just white instead.

**0 BBY**

**Rebel Cruiser _Profundity_ \- Scarif Orbit**

  
  


_“Hurry!”_

Smoke and klaxons filled the air. The ship shuddered, lights flickering, consoles sparking—

**_Download complete._ **

Thysio snatched the datadrive and ran. 

_“—gotta go_ **_now!”_ **

_“Seal the blast doors!”_

_“Hurry!!”_

The others waved him past, holding their positions along the sides of the hallway, blasters primed to guard the airlock—

Which was still kriffing _shut—_

He all but slammed into the wall beside it, seized the lever, and pulled.

The door slid open _—_ all of six inches. 

_“Karking—”_

He shoved the datadrive into his pocket and threw himself at the door, seizing a handle and _heaving,_ again and again. 

It didn’t budge. 

“It’s stuck! Help me!” 

Dodd grabbed the other handle and put his back into it… to no avail. 

Thysio’s heart thumped like it wanted to escape. 

_“Hey!”_ He slapped at the window as hard as he could, ignoring the sting, watching the Tantive IV’s crew dash back and forth past it— **_“Help!!”_ **

He heard and _felt_ the ship groan behind him. 

The hallway lights flickered and died… and Thysio could have sworn it got _colder._

Banging his fist on the window, he looked back over his shoulder. 

They’d shut the blast doors, putting a wall of solid black metal between them and the 'troopers. Even so, the others trained their blasters on it, waiting for the telltale glow of a plasmacutter. 

For a moment there was only the blaring of the alarm, the hissing of a ruptured valve, the _thump_ of his own heart—

Then the ship groaned again. Louder, closer... 

And the blast doors _dented._

Thysio’s blood ran cold. 

With a bone-shaking shriek, the six-inch titanium wrinkled like flimsiplast, bulged inward, and _bent open_ under some invisible pressure, leaving a gaping, jagged hole that just kept growing—

**_“Open fire!!”_ **

Blaster bolts lit up the hallway, strobing into the breach, flashing as they struck white armor—

And then nothing.

**_"Keep it up!”_ **

_Covering fire._

Thysio turned back to the jammed door—

And was slammed against it. 

He staggered back, head ringing from the impact. If it weren’t for his helmet—

His ankle caught on something, and he tripped and fell— not onto hard floor, but a moving body. 

The others were sprawled all around him, on the floor or against the walls, all hit by the same strange shockwave, some with their necks bent all wrong—

Someone shouted. 

Thysio’s eyes snapped up. 

A lone figure had stepped through the ruined blast doors.

They were small for a soldier, clad in matte-grey armor half-hidden by a heavy black cloak... and beneath their hood was a bone-white mask made of two sleek blades flowing around a narrow faceplate, like the skull of some streamlined predator—

Someone fired their blaster. 

The bolt met a beam of humming red plasma _—_ and bounced right back at the man who'd shot it. 

A _lightsaber._

A _kriffing lightsaber—_

As the others opened fire again, Thysio leapt to the door and beat at it with all his strength. 

**_“Help us!!”_ **

He heard a cry of pain, a scream, the _zapping_ sound of blaster-bolts striking flesh—

And _finally_ a crewman noticed him through the tiny pane of transparisteel, gaze flicking between him and the _thing_ in the hallway. Thysio nodded at the door between them, and the other man joined him in grabbing it and _pulling_ —

It didn’t budge. 

Thysio dared a glance back. 

Several men lay dead, torsos smoking from their own deflected shots, and the figure was halfway down the corridor, lightsaber searing crimson in the darkness _—_

_I’m going to die,_ he realized... and a sense of calm washed over him. 

Because _he_ was going to die— but the _Rebellion_ didn’t have to. 

Without another thought, he turned back around, snatched the datadrive from his pocket, and thrust his arm through the gap in the door. 

**_“Take it!”_ **

He felt the crewman’s fingers close around his own—

Then the door slammed shut. 

He felt a _crack,_ and a single instant of crushing, _tearing_ pressure—

His legs failed him, and he slumped against the door, splattering it with blood from what was left of his arm. 

As the sounds of suffering faded and the world went dark around him, Thysio breathed a sigh of relief. 

The _Tantive_ had the plans. 

_Hope._

_There's... there's still..._   
  


*******

  
  


The last rebel fell in two pieces before her, and Ravous leapt over his carcass, sprinting to the airlock door. She could feel the crew moving away, rushing to their jump stations _—_

If they’d already begun hyperspace calculations—

_No._

She tore the airlock open and charged through— just as the docking clamps released. 

The rebel corvette fell out of the hangar, into open space. 

**_No._ **

As the cruiser's atmosphere rushed out past her, Ravous clipped her saber onto her belt and let her fury flow— at that traitor Erso, at the murderers he’d aided, at the child-abandoning _schutta_ pulling all their strings—

She reached out, feeling the crude shell of the corvette around the fragile lives within, the solid weight of it, the energy pouring into its engines... 

And she _gripped._

Her legs bent, the airlock floor groaning and bending beneath her feet, power coursing through her mind, her blood, her limbs _—_

The corvette’s fall slowed, and then stopped. 

The Force roared with triumphant hunger. Ravous grinned through gritted teeth, even as her muscles burned with the effort—

Then the sublight thrusters surged to full power. 

**_NO!_ **

Ravous tightened her grip, pouring all her anger, all her focus into just **_holding_ ** **—**

But it was too much. The feedback slammed into her like a knife to the brain, and she staggered back, reeling. 

With a snarl, she planted her feet, and opened her eyes...

Just in time to see the corvette blur away into hyperspace. 

Then it was quiet.

Rebel bodies floated in the vacuum before her, sucked out by the depressurization, bouncing off the walls of the hangar as their deaths echoed in the Force. 

_“Sir.”_ A stormtrooper’s voice buzzed through her helmet comm. _“The Devastator is tracing their trajecto—”_

Had there been air to carry vibrations, a violent, cracking _crunch_ would have sounded. 

As it was, the troopers simply joined the floating dead, the magnets in their boots crushed along with the rest of their armor. 

Crimson droplets crystallized in the vacuum. 

Bits of shattered plastoid tumbled like shards of ice. 

_Waste of troops._

**_Stupid._ **

_Your will must be_ **_stronger_ ** _—_

_Weak._

_No. **Focus.** _

_Through Passion I gain Strength through Strength I gain Power through Power I gain_ **_Victory_**

The hunt had only just begun. 

The terrorists had lost a half-dozen of their puny warships, while the Empire had only lost two Star Destroyers out of _thousands..._ and with no fighters to shield it or cruiser to hide within, that corvette would be easy prey. 

With a growl, Ravous turned and marched back into the cruiser, cloak flowing behind her. 

  
  
  


*******

  
  
  


**Jundland Wastes - Tatooine**

  
  
  


Luke’s hand faltered over the Dejarik board, his gaze suddenly unfocused. 

The boulders he was levitating ceased their orbit, but did not fall. 

Ben felt a surge of pride… which faded into worry. 

He hadn’t felt anything. 

The Force flowed in mysterious ways, but if Luke _was_ uniquely attuned to whatever disturbance he’d clearly sensed… 

Ben reinforced his mental shields. 

Luke had, over time, come to terms with the truth about his father… 

But he would never have to face his father across a battlefield. 

And for all Luke’s power and potential, Ben just didn’t know if he was _ready._ True, he won most of their sparring matches, and ten years of training had greatly tempered his youthful impulsiveness… but there was still frustration in him, a constant, subtle undercurrent of it, tangled up with the nameless longing Ben hadn't yet given him the tools to understand.

A sigh escaped before Ben could stop it. 

Luke looked up, a slight frown on his face. 

“Did you feel that too?” 

Ben considered lying to him, then— and was immediately cross with himself for it. 

He’d never lied to the boy. 

Not directly, anyway. 

“I didn’t,” he said. “Though I’m not surprised— I often find myself unconsciously tuning out the echoes of the Empire’s crimes, and you are remarkably sensitive. Can you tell me what it felt like?” 

Luke’s frown deepened, eyes flicking between the small, holographic figures between them. 

“...I don’t know. There was this calm, sort of… _trusting_ feeling, like when I let go and let the Force guide me, but more… complete, somehow? But then it vanished, and there was this sudden _anger_ , so strong I didn’t even really recognize it as anger, at first.” He looked up, and met Ben’s gaze over the Dejarik board. “Is that… is that what the Dark Side feels like?” 

“It can be. The Dark Side is fed by self-centered passions— anger and hatred, yes, but also fear, pain… even love can lead to darkness, if that love is selfish, focused on possession rather than compassion.” 

Luke’s expression pinched, and Ben knew he’d understood. 

“Why haven’t I felt this before, then? If the Empire is ruled by a Sith, and it’s feeding the Dark Side with its crimes…” 

“I don’t know for certain,” said Ben— and he really didn’t. He’d expected Luke to sense his sister years ago, but… “but it is only logical that the Emperor must have Force-sensitive servants, to hunt other survivors of the Purge.” 

The worry vanished from Luke’s expression, then, replaced with wide-eyed excitement. “Do you know others who got away? Do you know where they are?” 

“I know of a few, yes.” Ben surveyed the board, and moved his Molator to G7. “But their hiding places are just as secret to me as mine is to them.” 

“For safety.” The boy frowned again. “Right.” 

“I think,” said Ben, “that to have felt what you did here, so far from Imperial territory, it may have originated from someone strongly connected to the Dark Side.” 

“Like a Sith?” 

Ben stroked his beard, eyes on the board. “The Sith are not the only ones who dwell in the darkness… but it is likely.” 

Luke crossed his arms and hunched forward a bit, almost _protectively…_ but in the air above, those two boulders still circled. 

The boy was strong. A natural talent, and a quick learner. And he’d grown in patience and focus— but that frustration within him, that restlessness… 

Perhaps if they’d been back at the Temple, with other Masters to consult, Ben might have known how to tell if Luke was ready. Perhaps if he himself was a more challenging sparring partner… 

He wasn’t even sure how he was going to simulate the Trials. 

Perhaps Qui-Gon would have some suggestions. 

Qui-Gon… 

Even so many years later, even with his Master’s disembodied advice, the memory of that day in Theed still ached. The grief, the anger that had almost overwhelmed him, and afterwards, with Anakin looking up at him, eyes bright and hopeful through the confusion and pain… 

Ben knew he would always carry some guilt over what had happened. But nineteen years of meditation and reflection had done much to clarify the waters of his mind. There were so many moments of Anakin’s training, of Anakin’s _life,_ where he now saw his own missteps… but he could not change them now. And even if he had been the perfect Jedi Master, Palpatine’s influence would still have been there, pulling his brother slowly into the dark. 

He hadn’t felt any more ready to train Luke than he had to train Anakin. But it needed to be done, and there was no one else to do it. 

Perhaps one never _was_ truly ready. 

Perhaps it didn’t matter if you were. When duty called, when the Force willed… 

“Ben?” 

He looked up. Luke glanced at the board— where he’d just taken Ben’s Savrip with his Strider. 

The boy smirked, eyes bright. 

“Your move.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Skywalker Drama Gene is strong, but can be partially suppressed by fear of an abusive father figure.  
> Partially. 
> 
> Auntie Ahsoka and Ravous' Favorite Inquisitor will return soon!


	7. Desperate Times

The instant the ship lurched back into realspace, Padmé was out of her jump harness and jogging up the central corridor. 

_Too kriffing close._

She’d known what she was getting into when they set course for Scarif, but actually being there, in the thick of it— alarms blaring, fleet comms crackling, ship shuddering as enemy fighters tested the shields— 

It had been a while, to say the least. 

And now, after so long in the shadows… 

_Open rebellion_. 

All because of one ragtag band of survivors decided there was something more important than surviving. 

She almost couldn’t believe it. 

The doors whirred open and she strode into the cockpit, where Typho stood with a hand on either pilot’s chair. 

“Status, Captain?” 

He straightened up, and stepped aside to give her a clear line of sight out the viewpane— which had polarized itself against the light of two distinct stars. Her prosthetic eye provided specs unbidden— both yellow dwarfs, one slightly larger, but the smaller of the two more luminous... 

“Just arrived in the Tatoo system, Milady, one half-AU out. Engines running smooth, weapons online, but it looks like we took a hit to one of the dorsal motivators; shield power’s fluctuating like crazy, and the hyperdrive is acting up— we had to decelerate early. ”

_“Acting up?”_

Typho clasped his hands behind his back and stood tall. “Techs are looking at it now, but they think we’re venting charged coolant… and have been since Scarif.”

Kark. 

They might as well have left _signal buoys._

“How far to Tatooine?” She asked. 

“At full burn, we can be there in twenty minutes.”

Twenty minutes. 

Fleeing hostiles that would extrapolate their trajectory and jump straight to the planet. 

It hit her like a cold wave. 

_We’re not escaping this._

They’d won the battle and somehow survived it, they _had the plans…_

And soon the Emperor’s attack dog would have _them._

Twenty years of close calls, and right when they were on the verge of—

_No._

_Lock it down, General._

_This is happening. Plot your course through it, and you can break down later._

She planted her feet, and took a deep, steadying breath. 

The plans. 

Tatooine. 

_Obi-Wan,_ and… 

No. She couldn’t think about that right now. 

Fierfek. 

If they couldn’t make a landing, couldn’t link up in person… 

For the first time in years, Padmé had only one viable plan of action… and that, somehow, was even scarier than being shot at by a Star Destroyer. 

“Take us in, Captain, full sublight. I want to skim the planet’s gravity well while conserving as much momentum as possible. The more time we can buy, the better.” 

“You heard her!” 

The pilots rushed to it, hands flying over the control boards, flipping switches and pulling levers—

Padmé turned on her heel, and marched out of the cockpit. 

Beneath her ‘decorative’ leather bracelet, the datadrive dug into the inside of her wrist, a comforting discomfort. 

She raised her other wrist to tap her commlink. 

“Artoo, are you still at the charging station?” 

The astromech beeped affirmatively. 

“Well unplug and meet me at the escape pods. And bring Threepio!” 

She was halfway there when the alarms started up again. 

**_“All personnel to battle stations. Repeat, all personnel to battle stations, we’re about to have company!”_ **

Padmé’s chest ached for the those who were about to die— but it was a dull ache, a familiar ache, and one she had practice ignoring. 

She needed every second they could buy her. 

Her boots pounded the durasteel floor, arms pumping, knees protesting at every sharp turn. Crewmen dodged out of her way, clearing a path and shouting for others to do the same—

She reached the escape pod bay just as the first shudder wracked the ship. Typho’s voice filled the passageways, calm and clipped despite the turbolasers slamming into them—

She nearly ran straight into Threepio. 

“Ah! General Amidala—”

“Not now!” She spun around and typed quickly at the door controls, shutting and locking it behind her, and then turned to find Artoo. 

The astromech stood in the middle of the passage, right beside the hatch of one of the pods. 

A compartment just below its dome snapped open. 

Padmé’ knelt so fast it hurt, and dug the datadrive out from under her bracelet. 

The ship shook again, harder this time—

“How much data storage do you have freed up, Artoo?” 

_How much do I need?_ it beeped. 

...Kark. 

“It’s probably petabytes anyway,” she muttered, and inserted the drive. “I need you to multitask, alright? Set all the escape pods to launch in ten minutes, and record a message. Just basic holo and audio, on my signal. Can you do that?” 

Artoo rolled to the nearest dataport and spun its dome to point its primary lens at her. Beeped affirmatively. 

With another deep breath, she stood up, stepped back… and hesitated. 

Obi-Wan. 

_Ben,_ now, and for the past nineteen years. 

Nineteen years isolated from the rest of the galaxy, from any surviving Jedi, from the Rebellion… 

All for Luke. 

_Force_ , just thinking his name was like a stun bolt to the chest. 

Her baby boy… 

Had Obi-Wan ever told him who he she was? That she was still alive? Why she had to— to send him away? 

Did he even know he’d had a sister, once? That she’d been _murdered_ by the—

**_“All fire teams, prepare to repel boarders! Repeat, prepare to rebel boarders!”_ **

_Lock it down,_ she told herself. 

But with this, she’d be giving Obi-Wan a new mission… and his _current_ mission might well see this message— and she had no idea what to say to Luke, or _if_ she should even—

The ship shuddered again— and with it came the distinctive _clunk_ of docking clamps. 

Alright. 

Chin up, shoulders back, core tight… 

“Start recording.” 

A green light flicked on beside Artoo’s primary lens. 

“Obi-Wan. Nineteen years ago, you saved me from the Rise of the Empire, and I have spent every day since working towards its defeat. On behalf of the Alliance to Restore the Republic, I now ask for your help once again.” 

  
  
  


*****

  
  
  


A jagged pane of durasteel clattered to the floor, edges still red-hot from the plasmacutter. A half-dozen stormtroopers rushed through the breach blasters-first, quickly taking aim at the short, greying woman with the cybernetic left eye. 

That woman stood tall, unafraid, hands open and empty at her sides. 

Just as empty as the passageway around her, and the pod ports behind her. 

“Good work, Gentlemen.” Padmé Amidala held out her wrists to be cuffed. “You’ve just captured the Voice of the Rebellion.” 

They stunned her anyway. 

She would have done the same in their place, of course. And she’d been stunned plenty of times, mostly to prepare for this sort of situation… but it was still frustrating. 

‘Slightly concussed’ was _not_ how she had envisioned meeting Ravous. 

At least her Eye was shielded against energy pulses.

By the time she regained muscle control, they’d dragged her back into the main passageway, gloved hands like vices around her biceps. Muscle control was _not_ enough to walk properly, because the main passageway was spinning. 

_Seemed to be._ Seemed to be spinning. 

Other ‘troopers marched past the ones dragging her, slicing door controls and ransacking the compartments beyond, herding her crew around at blasterpoint… 

Dragging corpses. 

The scent of carbonized flesh clung in her nose. As if she wasn’t already queasy enough. 

She shook her head, and regretted it. Forced her legs to bend, to take her weight, forced her back straight, head up… 

The doors to the conference chamber hissed open— just in time for her to see Captain Typho hit the wall with a muffled _crack_ and fall limply to the floor. 

He left a dent. 

Didn't move.

Neither could she. 

She'd seen so many people die, but Typho— _Gregar—_

He'd always been there, ever since she first moved to Coruscant— he _couldn't_ be—

The ‘troopers shoved her through the door, prodding her in the back with their blasters. 

She stood tall, schooled her expression, put a little glide in her step… 

And there they were. 

Lord Ravous, hunter of Jedi and Rebel alike, stood like a shadow in middle of the white-walled conference room.

They wore armor that looked half Imperial, half Mando, and the kind of big black cloak Padmé hadn't realized exactly how much she _never wanted to see again_ until just now—

—and what the _kark_ was that _mask?_

They turned their head to toward her so quickly it was almost avian— but the rest of them remained statue-still, facing what was left of Typho. 

She crossed the room in a few smooth strides, and… 

...didn’t find herself looking _up_ quite as much as she was used to. 

“Lord Ravous.” She took position an arm’s length from the creature, expression calm and disinterested. “I thought you’d be taller.” 

She wasn’t _quite_ sure she managed to keep the fury out of her eyes, but this wasn’t the Senate. 

Ravous said nothing. Just… stared at her. 

Padmé's left eye focused in on their mask (though maybe _faceplate_ was more apt), and highlighted the shape of lenses within the lateral slits. 

Then that faceplate tilted ever-so-slightly to one side. 

The rest of them didn’t move. 

If this was supposed to be menacing, then—

**“Where,”** they said, **“are the plans.”**

Their voice was vocoded, putting a deep, electronic reverberation over the softer tones beneath. 

“Several places,” she said, glaring into their hidden eyes. “Here, Naboo, Vandor, the Gaulus Sector, _probably_ Nal Hutta by the end of the—” 

She cut herself off, sudden panic coursing through her. 

**“Talk, talk, talk…”** Ravous looked sidelong at Typho’s crumpled body. **“That’s all you’re good for, isn’t it? Talking people into dying for you.”**

Padmé’s heart slammed against her ribs. 

Ravous’ hands hadn’t moved— but she could’ve _sworn_ something had touched her throat.

Another karking _Force user._

Alright, that tracked; the lack of surviving eyewitnesses, the way they dressed like an Inquisitor given freedom of expression, and she’d _thought_ she heard someone shout _lightsaber_ over the Profundity’s comms—

She glanced at their waist— and sure enough, her left eye found a cylinder of metal hidden by the cloak.

They looked at her again. Slower, this time, as if bored. 

**“Where are the plans.”**

She swallowed. Glared. 

_I should have rigged the ship to blow._

**“Take her.”**

Once more, the stormtroopers seized her upper arms, and dragged her away. 

Behind her mask of queenly calm, Padmé breathed a silent sigh of relief. 

Artoo had the plans, and the message. Had Threepio with them, to translate as needed. Had launched in one escape pod of twelve, which would be scattered over an entire hemisphere… 

That would just have to buy them enough time to reach Obi-Wan. 

As for her… 

_Deep breaths._

She’d seen survivors of Imperial interrogation. The cuts, the burns, the bones pressing against papery skin…

The nerve damage. 

The dull, distant eyes. 

They would try to make her recant. Try to make her speak out against the Rebellion. 

And when she refused, they would kill her. 

That thought should have bothered her. Distressed her. Frightened her. 

But she’d been ready to die for the cause since she held her children for the last time. 

She’d almost been _waiting_ for this, really. 

The Rebellion was so strong, now, so much more than the scattered, paranoid cells of ten years ago. They’d infiltrated and destroyed a major Imperial installation, escaped with the most sensitive information in the galaxy, the key to breaking through the fog of fear the Empire so relied on… 

She’d done all she could. She’d given everything to the Rebellion, and they would get on fine on without her. 

They were _strong_. 

Ahsoka, Rex, Tau, Mon, Artoo, Threepio, Obi-Wan, **_Luke_ —**

—dear, sweet Luke—

For the first time, Padmé hoped that Obi-Wan had trained him. She hoped, suddenly and desperately, that he had _prepared_ Luke for what she had brought down on their heads. 

She hoped they could forgive her. 

  
  
  


*******

  
  
  


**Lars Moisture Farm - Tatooine**

  
  
  
  


_Emotion, yet peace._

He’d never really understood that one. There were peaceful emotions, so clearly the two weren't opposites. 

_Ignorance, yet knowledge._

He guessed that one made sense, in a 'wisdom is knowing that I know nothing' sort of way. 

_Passion, yet serenity._

He was pretty sure that was what he felt when he stargazed, so yeah, sure... 

_Chaos, yet harmony._

That one, not so much. Ben’s explanations always seemed to involve plants like Felucia or Kashyyyk, which _sounded_ amazing, but Luke could never really picture them. If he couldn’t feel Ben’s sincerity, he might not have even believed such places could exist. Plants fifty feet tall? It just seemed so… _fantastical_. 

_Death, yet the Force._

He understood the _concept…_ but he’d always learned the best hands-on. And Ben didn’t seem to get that ‘becoming one with the entire universe’ sounded just as scary as straight-up dying, so… 

Kriff. 

With a slow breath, Luke eased out of his levitation, lowering himself back onto the bed. Then he uncrossed his legs and flopped onto his back. Stared up at the old ARC-170 schematics stuck to the ceiling. 

He always did this. Always tried to analyze things like they were a droid or an engine… 

But there was nothing _technical_ about what he’d felt, yesterday. 

Or last night. 

Just absolute kriffing _rage,_ like that time he’d seen that sleemo beating a slave in Anchorhead, but _more—_ so much more it was hard to think, hard not to reach for the Force… 

It had taken him a second, yesterday, to realize it wasn’t his own rage he was feeling, but last night… 

Last night there had been _sound._ Sound like the plasmacutters in a salvage shop, like the blaster fire in old holo-docs, like people screaming for help—

And a voice. 

He was pretty sure it’d been a woman’s voice, but without knowing the species that was anyone’s guess, and it’d been… _muffled,_ drowned out by the silent, seething anger. 

And then he’d woken up. 

Was this what Ben meant, about the ‘echoes of the Empire’s crimes?’ He’d felt disturbances in the Force before, but never so _clearly._ They’d always been distant before, like someone yelling over the dunes on a windy day. 

Had something happened closer to Tatooine? Or _on_ Tatooine? They were far from official Imperial territory, but the spaceports still saw their unfair share of stormtroopers. 

That was what Biggs said, anyway. 

Had said. 

Luke wondered how he was doing. The Imperial Academy… he’d wanted to talk Biggs out of it, but how was he going to explain knowing so many dirty details, all the way out in the middle of nowhere? Knowing how the Empire _really_ came to power, and what they were doing to keep it? 

What they would make Biggs do? 

_Emotion, yet peace_

_“Luke!”_ Uncle Owen’s voice came muffled and distant through the door. _“Luke!”_

He opened the door with a wave of his hand. “Yeah?” 

_“Sandcrawler’s comin’ over the hill! Get out here!”_

Right. 

Ugh. 

He rolled out of bed, onto his feet, and took a second to reel himself back in, out of the Force, and tighten up his mental shields. He’d never heard of a Force-sensitive Jawa, but droids could be bugged, or sliced— remotely, if it was the right type of droid and the wrong type of person. 

_“Luke!”_

“Coming!” He pulled on his boots, and stepped out into the light. 

The sun was already high, pouring heat into the Main Pit, and forcing Luke to squint. 

“There y’are,” Aunt Beru called from the kitchen. “It’s not like you t’sleep in so late…”

“I’m alright,” he said, giving her a quick smile. “Jus’ wizard stuff.”

“Normal wizard stuff? Or _weird_ wizard stuff?”

“Nothing’s broken!” 

She crossed her arms, giving off soft amusement… but also worry. 

“I’ll explain later,” he said, and jogged away across the Pit. 

When he joined Uncle Owen in the doorway of the entry dome, the Sandcrawler was only a few hundred yards out, and… coming from the East. 

Weird. 

Maybe they had a new stop on their route? He hadn’t _heard_ about anyone new moving out to the ‘Flats, but those that did weren’t usually the friendliest types… 

Luke watched the big, blocky machine trundle closer, puffing little bursts of steam from some port on its back. 

Soon he could feel the vibrations of it through the soles of his boots… along with the soft, silent song of the lifeforms inside. It had been a few months since they last passed through, but he was _pretty_ sure they felt the same— similar numbers, same species… 

“Luke.” 

He opened his eyes, and found Uncle Owen giving him a flat, warning look. 

“What? I was being careful.”

The old farmer crossed his arms, and pointed his glare at the Sandcrawler instead. “See that ya keep it that way. Y’know y’can’t trust them Jawas.”

Luke rolled his eyes. 

He’d tried telling Uncle Owen how other species felt in the Force, like different words in the same language, but he could feel Owen’s discomfort with it, could feel the old fear in him. 

The Force would always be a Jedi thing, a part of what kept Anakin away when Grandma Shmi needed him most, of what left that Tusken village empty of everything but sun-bleached bones… 

With a rumble and a hiss, the Sandcrawler stopped. A moment later the loading ramp groaned slowly open. 

_“Luke?”_ Aunt Beru’s voice drifted up over the lip of the Pit. _“Luke!”_

He jogged over, and found her standing by the vaporators, shading her eyes with one hand. 

“Tell yer Uncle that if he gets a translator, make sure it speaks Bocce!” 

He glanced back at the Sandcrawler, where the Jawas were herding a handful of beat-up droids down the ramp. “Don’t look like we got much choice, but I’ll tell’im!” 

Then he started back over, and…

Huh. 

He’d never seen a golden droid before… much less one that was actually _shiny._

That blue-and-white astromech too— just the dome, but still. 

The _time_ it must have taken to polish that much plating… 

The Jawas sure as kriff didn’t do it. 

So either some palace-dwelling Hutt had decided to sell off one of his status symbols… or those two droids came from offworld. 

Luke tightened up his shields again. Ben always said his excitement was _bright,_ whatever that meant. 

He walked over to check out the astromechs. They needed a repair droid, so either would do— he was pretty sure they were both R2 units. The chunky white-and-red one would be cheaper, but… there was just something about the shiny one, something he couldn’t put his finger on. He was _aware_ of it, even as he knelt to inspect the red one, in a way he was only ever aware of lifeforms, or… 

Or his lightsaber. 

“You!” Uncle Owen stepped up in front of the golden droid. “I suppose you’re programmed for etiquette and protocol?”

Luke checked the red ‘mech’s treads, its hinges… 

“Protocol? Why, it’s my primary function, Sir. I am well-versed in all customs—”

Wait. That accent… 

“I have no need of a protocol droid.” 

“Of course you haven’t, Sir, not in an environment such as this.”

It was softer on the consonants, enunciated the kriff out of every word… 

“That is why I have been programmed—”

“What I really need,” said Owen, “is a droid who understands the binary language of moisture vaporators.”

“Vaporators? Sir, my first job was programming binary load-lifters very similar to your vaporators in most respects.” 

It almost sounded like _Ben._

A _Core_ accent. 

Did that mean it _was_ from offworld? Or was that just how they made protocol droids?

Still half-listening, Luke moved on to the blue-and-silver ‘mech. He crouched in front of it, reached up to brush some dirt off its primary lens—

And froze. 

He _felt_ something from it. It felt… _familiar,_ like he’d seen it around Anchorhead or something, even though he was _sure_ he’d remember a droid this shiny, and…

Yes— it was just barely there, like a fading echo, but… 

Desperation? 

What the stang was up with him this week? He shouldn’t be able to feel _emotions_ from a _droid._

...should he? 

“Luke!”

He snapped out of it, and looked up to find Uncle Owen standing by the golden droid, hands on his hips. Stood up. 

“Take these two over to the garage, will you?” Owen nodded to the protocol droid, and to the ‘mech. “I want’em cleaned up before dinner.” 

“But I was gonna go over to see Uncle Ben!” 

_I have_ **_questions!_ **

“You can float rocks with that old wizard when the work’s done. Come on, get to it.”

Kriff. 

“Alright.” Luke patted the blue-and-white R2 on its shiny dome. “Welcome to the family, little guy.” 

“I meant the red one,” said Owen. 

What? “But…” 

That felt _wrong._

Uncle Owen crossed his arms again, and raised his greying eyebrows in a silent dare. 

Luke glanced at the Jawas around them, chatting amongst themselves, poking and prodding the droids… 

It was hard to tell how much Standard they really understood— he’d never heard them speak it, but they seemed to get certain words just fine… 

And he didn’t need Ben’s warnings to know to be careful mentioning Jedi stuff. He’d seen the bounty postings in Mos Espa. 

Uncle Owen’s eyes narrowed. “No.”

“But Uncle—

“I said no. This is a money decision, not a _feelings_ decision, and I’m not paying extra for a half-decent polish job. Now get a move on!” 

Luke frowned. He could probably talk Owen into it… but if it turned into an argument he wouldn’t be allowed to see Ben for a _week._

_Echuta._

“Alright,” he sighed.

At least he could ask Goldie some questions. 

With one last look at the shiny little astromech, he led the other two back toward the house. 

Halfway there, something fizzled and _popped._

He turned to find the red-and-white ‘mech stopped a meter back, smoking and sparking from a compartment on its head. 

“Uncle Owen! This R2 unit has a bad motivator, look!” 

The old farmer turned on the Jawas. “What are you trying to pull?”

Then a hand touched Luke’s shoulder.

A _metal_ hand. 

“Excuse me, Sir, but that R2 unit is in prime condition.” 

Luke shot his Uncle a big fat smirk. 

  
  
  


*****

  
  


While Goldie got lowered into the oil bath, Luke dropped himself into a chair across the workshop and fiddled with his model Skyhopper. The real one still needed repairs. Maybe the R2 could help with that— he was designed for ships, after all, not farm equipment… 

He reached for the Force to levitate the model, and only barely stopped himself in time. 

_Droids can be bugged._

**_10,000 Imperial Credits for information regarding any Jedi, Dead or Alive_ ** _—_

Ugh. 

He slouched deeper into the chair, and looked at the new droids. 

The R2 had some dark spots around its dome and body, so he tossed the model on the kaf table and got some tools from the locker. 

He’d only just knelt in front of the little droid when Goldie spoke up again:

“Pardon me, Sir,” it said, “but may I ask what planet we are on?” 

Luke tightened his shields reflexively. 

It _was_ from offworld!

Ben’s stories flashed through his mind— the underwater cities of Naboo, the cloudpiercers of Coruscant, the mountains of Alderaan, _Kashyyyk_ —

And here he was in the kriffing ‘flats. 

“Well,” she said, taking a rag to the R2’s spots, “if there’s a bright center to the universe, you’re on the rock that it’s farthest from.” 

“I see, Sir.” 

“You can call me Luke.”

“I see, Sir Luke.” 

He smirked. “Just _Luke_ is fine.” 

“Well if introductions are to be had, I am C3P0, human-cyborg relations— and this is my counterpart, R2D2.” 

Luke hesitated mid-scrub. 

They were _both_ from offworld. What were the chances? 

What was it Ben said? _The Force moves in mysterious ways?_

He blinked, refocusing on R2D2. The spots weren’t coming off… he’d thought it was dirt or grease, but… 

“You’ve got some carbon scoring, little buddy.” He glanced over his shoulder at C3PO. “Where exactly did the Jawas pick you two up?” 

“I’m afraid I’m not familiar with local geography, but I don’t believe we had gotten very far from our escape pod.” 

This just got better and better! 

_“Escape pod?”_

“Yes, one of twelve such pods launched from the starship we were on— under some duress, I might add.”

Duress? What did—

R2D2 let out a rapid string of whistles and beeps. 

“What?” 3P0 almost sounded… _offended?_ “I am merely being polite! This young man is our new—“

Another whistle— and what looked like a tuning fork extended from a hatch in R2’s side, pointing at 3P0, crackling with _electricity_ —

“Well, I never!” Said 3P0. 

What the kriff was going on? 

First that feeling of rage, yesterday and last night, the echoes of emotion on R2… 

Wait. 

_‘Under some duress.’_

He looked up to where 3P0 stood half-submerged in the oil bath. 

“Were you in a battle?”

3P0 turned his torso slightly— but before he could say anything, R2 blared and beeped at him. 

It sounded _angry._

He’d heard of droids developing personality-like quirks after a few decades… 

How long had these two been around? 

_Droids can be bugged, can be sliced…_

But he had to _know._

So he put down the rag, lay his hand flat on R2’s dome, and closed his eyes.

_Emotion, yet peace._

_Ignorance, yet knowledge._

_The Force is not a tool to be used— it is an ally to be trusted, as surely as you trust your own body._

_Let it guide you._

His hand began to move. It slid over the polished metal, down over the subtle seams where dome met body… 

_There._

He opened his eyes— and found a slat of blue metal, a _hatch_ to another compartment. He pressed a finger to it… and it didn’t open. 

He picked up one of the tools he’d grabbed, a miniature prybar, stuck the hooked end into the gap between hatch and hull, _pushed…_

And got a flash of blue light right in the retina. 

_“Kriff!”_

He fell on his ass, palms slapping the floor, blinking hard—

And then he heard a voice. 

_The_ voice. 

_“Please, Obi-Wan— you’re our only hope.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It begins!
> 
> Yes, I am giving Luke a southern accent. We're going full farm boy here, folks. That said, he probably code-switches to Core Standard when he's with Ben. 
> 
> Also, there you have it: Padmé thinks Leia died with the Organas. Stay tuned to find out why, how it affected her, and what happened to her eye.


	8. The Message

No two Force-sensitives perceived the Great Mystery quite the same way. 

Heightened intuition and unusually strong empathy were common among the untrained— but as the connection was cultivated and honed, it became more unique. 

For some, the Force was a physical thing, perceived in changes of pressure or temperature that had little to do with the molecules around them. For others, it was almost auditory, like a silent song with infinite tones and notes and rhythms. Others yet knew it as kinesthetic, their innate sense of their own position and movement expanding to encompass the world around them. A special few could see the emotions of those around them expressed in colorful auras (which could be especially confusing for all parties when the individual was of a species that perceived more of the light spectrum than their fellows. Quite a linguistic experience, that). 

Ben’s own connection was strongly physical and kinesthetic. The latter was developed enough to give him an uncommon edge in combat, but the former was something that often required interpretation. 

So here he sat, on the shady side of his hut overlooking the salt flats, looking at those flats and beyond with his eyes closed. Breathing deeply, and so slowly that a layman might think him dead, he opened himself to the Force. His consciousness expanded out of his tiny, aging body, down into the mountain beneath him, out over the desert… 

His effective range was only a dozen or so kilometers— but that extra area acted like a satellite dish, catching pulses of emotion from much further out… and much further _up._

The presence he had sensed last night was gone. That cold, violent rage, _without_ the wild undercurrent of fear he had felt from Ana— from _Vader…_

There were traces of it, yes… but stronger now were the hot pulses of fear interrupting the general weary calm of the settlements— Anchorhead, Mos Espa, Mos Eisley… 

Anger, too, but passive, simmering… 

And no more death than usual. 

The Empire was conducting raids again. 

Interrogating, perhaps. Searching for something… but what? 

Had a rebel cell formed here without him noticing? It was true he hadn’t been into town in a few months, but… 

The whirr of a speeder echoed up from the flats, loud in the sweltering quiet of the desert. 

_Luke’s_ speeder. 

He reached out through their training bond, just to be sure… and felt the thrill of speed, of wind whipping at sunbaked skin and some unnamed _excitement_ —

Hm. 

With a deep breath and a groan, Ben reeled his awareness back in and got up to make some tea. 

Around the hut, in the door, over the dusty, threadbare rug to the stove in the corner… 

Luke surely would have felt it too, last night. Even more strongly than Ben had, in all likelihood. 

He would want answers again. 

Ben sighed. Put the kettle on. Stroked his beard. 

Was it time? 

Even if that _wasn’t—_ whatever Palpatine had made out of— the girl… it was still powerful, and likely a Jedi-hunter in some capacity. 

Karabast. 

The _raids._

They _couldn’t_ be here for Luke, could they? He and his friends met up at Tosche Station or Anchorhead, and only rarely at any of larger settlements, and Ben had _taught_ him to be cautious with his powers— surely no one had seen— 

The speeder’s engines sputtered as it pulled up outside. 

Sooner than it should have. 

Ben sighed. 

Force only knew what kind of foolhardy tricks Luke had pulled to get here so fast. 

**_Ben!_ ** he ‘shouted’ through the Bond. Ben couldn’t help but smile at the boy’s excitement. He couldn’t remember _ever_ being quite so… _exuberant._

_I’m here, Luke._

**_I’ve got something for you!_ **

Hm. Luke usually approached gift-giving with uncharacteristic timidness. What could…?

The door hissed open, and Ben heard Luke stomping the dust off his boots just outside, and…

Binary? 

He turned. 

Just in time to see R2-D2 come rolling through his door. 

“Ben!” Luke followed it in, shoes off to keep the sand out— “This Artoo unit has a message for you!”

Ah. 

Ben folded his hands behind his back, and did his best to keep the sudden surge of trepidation off his face. 

And then C-3PO shuffled in as well. 

Ben had to sit down. 

“Well,“ he managed, “this explains some things.” 

Luke halted mid-step. “You think the— disturbance?” 

“Both of them, yes.”

Along with the Imperial search parties combing the planet. 

_Karabast._

Luke’s eyes widened. He sat on an old supply crate, back to one of the pillars. “You felt it too, this time?”

“I did.” Ben leaned back against the wall of the alcove and looked at the two droids, stroking his beard. 

C-3PO stood up a bit straighter, its plating covered in dust. “Greetings, Sir, I am—“

 _[General Kenobi,]_ R2 interrupted, _[inquiry: this lifeform = secure witness; yes/no]_

Ben smiled. 

Good to see their personalities had endured however many memory wipes they’d been through at this point. 

And for these exact droids to come to him now, _with Luke,_ the day after such stark disturbances in the Force… 

_Has the time finally come?_

Ben took a steadying breath, and nodded.

“He is. What have you brought me, Artoo?” 

The droid rotated it’s dome slightly, putting it’s primary holoemitter forward, and with a whirr—

_“Obi-Wan.”_

Ben’s breath left him in a rush. 

The woman before him wore combat boots and gun belts instead of a dress and headpiece, her face was lined from decades of stress, and her left eye had been replaced by dark, spherical camera— but that _voice._

He’d recognize it anywhere. 

Calm and confident, yet full of feeling— 

_“Nineteen years ago you saved me from the rise of the Empire, and I have spent every day since working towards its defeat. On behalf of the Alliance to Restore the Republic, I now ask for your help once again.”_

Padmé Amidala stood in translucent miniature on his weathered rug, posture as regally perfect as if she were speaking to the Senate. 

“ _I wish I could speak with you in person. I wish I could show you what we’ve built, but my ship has been overtaken by Imperial forces— under the command of someone known only as Lord Ravous.”_

Ben’s hands clenched in the fabric of his cloak. 

_“I have placed information vital to the survival of billions inside this R2 unit. My sister will know how to retrieve it— you must see this droid safely delivered to her on Veruna, the largest moon of Naboo.”_

Her _sister?_

Padmé _hesitated_ then, throat bobbing, as if she were uncertain—

_“The thought of— of your mission, has given me strength all these years, but now… this may be the Rebellion’s most desperate hour, and…”_

She glanced over her shoulder suddenly, looked into the camera again— and paused. For a moment she said nothing, and Ben’s gaze fell on the carbon scoring staining R2’s dome— 

Then she bowed her head, and with a brief, shaky chuckle, said: 

_“It’s not safe.”_

When she looked up, there were tears in her eye. 

**_“Please,_ ** _Obi-Wan. You’re our only hope.”_

And then she vanished. 

Ben slumped back against the wall. Stared at nothing in particular. 

There was a faint ringing in his ears, why… 

Without warning another woman filled his mind’s eye, also rendered in holographic blue, face lined with fear and exhaustion and pale hair disheveled—

_—This is a message for Obi-Wan Kenobi—_

His heart _thudded,_ hard and sudden. 

_—I’ve lost Mandalore, my people have been_ **_massacred_ ** _—_

He screwed his eyes shut _—_

_Not now, please—_

**_Obi-Wan, I need your help!_ **

He tried to breathe deep, but his chest felt too _tight,_ as if something was pressing down on him, and the scent of scorched flesh filled his nose— 

“Ben?” 

That was then, this was _now_ , it wasn’t— she wouldn’t _—_

_Overtaken by Lord Ravous_

_No!_

“Ben!” 

Gentle hands touched his shoulders, thumbs rubbing _—_

“Hey, just breathe with me, okay?” 

Yes. Yes, he just had to _—_ to _—_

_I've loved you always—_

Cool calm washed over him like a step into the shade, lapping at the burning core of panic in his chest. 

“Is that better?” 

He swallowed, throat dry as the desert, but managed to nod. 

“Good. Can you breathe with me?” 

He all but gasped for air, and forced himself to hold it for several violent beats of his heart before releasing it.

“You’re safe,” said Luke. “The Clone Wars are over. You’re safe in your house on Tatooine.” 

Ben took another deep breath, and laid a hand over one of Luke’s. 

More reassurance poured through their training bond… along with subtle hints of Luke’s own fear and confusion. Ben squeezed the boy’s hand. 

Breathed in. 

Held it. 

Breathed out. 

He opened himself to the Force, letting it suffuse him with calming warmth.

Breathed in.

Held it. 

Breathed out. 

Gave Luke’s hand another squeeze, and let go. 

The boy sat beside him, rather than returning to the crate. 

How many times was that now? Six? Seven? 

Ben found himself very grateful that Luke had stopped asking _are you alright_ after the third incident or so. 

Inhale…

Hold…

Exhale…

Padmé. 

The years had been rough on her, not that he was one to talk, but… 

_Alliance to Restore the Republic._

Had she really done it? United enough disparate pockets of resistance to truly oppose the Empire? 

Ben had caught some rebel transmissions, over the years, even heard a few of her speeches exposing the Empire’s crimes, calling for the people to rise up, but this… 

This could be it. The moment he’d been awaiting and dreading for so long… 

_Vital to the survival of billions._

Haarchaak. 

Inhale… 

Hold… 

Exhale… 

_My sister,_ she’d said. Deliver it to her _sister_. 

Ben stroked his beard. 

She _couldn’t_ mean that literally. 

Sending either of the twins to her family on Naboo was never even an option— any relation of hers would be closely watched, if they hadn’t already _disappeared…_

No. She had to be speaking of someone else. Someone she was close to, someone she was absolutely sure _he_ would… 

...wait. 

Surely she couldn’t mean… 

“I’m your mission, aren’t I?”

Ben looked up, startled. 

“She talked about your ‘mission’,” the boy said, fiddling with the hilt of his 'saber. “You brought me here, you train me, you keep the Tuskens away…” 

Ben swallowed. Wet his lips. 

This was all happening rather fast. 

“Yes,” he forced himself to say. “At first, my only goal was to protect you… but when you were a few years old, I received a vision that… compelled me, to prepare you to face the Empire.” 

Luke seemed to consider that for a moment. Then his gaze fell once more on R2-D2. 

“And… her?” 

Ben stared at the droid as well. Stroked his beard. 

_It’s not safe._

Padmé clearly didn’t want Luke involved, didn’t want him _exposed_ to whatever she was facing right now, but… 

Ben sighed. 

He was too old to face the might of the Empire alone. Too diminished. 

To say nothing of _Lord Ravous._

And Luke… Luke was strong, yes, but he was also more patient and focused than his father had been at his age, less aggressive, and… 

“Ben?”

...and he deserved the truth. 

_Force have mercy._

“That,” said Ben, meeting the boy’s gaze, “was Padmé Amidala Naberrie, former Queen and Senator of Naboo, a lifelong champion of peace, justice, and democracy. She also happens to be your mother.” 

Luke’s eyes went wide, and snapped back to the patch of rug where Padme had appeared, shock pulsing through their Bond… 

...and giving way to stunned recognition. 

And then _anger._

“Uncle Owen told me she _died!”_

Ben would have sent back calm, if he’d had any to spare. Instead he reached into himself, and let Luke feel his regret and sorrow. 

The boy met his eyes once again, worry softening his anger. 

“Your Uncle,” said Ben, “was telling the truth as he knew it. Your mother was a political opponent of the Emperor, when he was still Chancellor, and she was carrying you. So we faked her death, and her funeral, and fooled most of the galaxy for some time— until she re-emerged as the Voice of the Rebellion.”

Luke chewed the inside of his cheek. Looked at R2 again. When he next spoke it was quiet, and hurt. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” 

Ben sighed, and put his arm around Luke’s shoulders— slowly, so as to allow the boy a chance to decline. 

“It would have distracted you from your training,” he said. “You saw her eye; the path she walks is not an easy one. You would have wanted to go to her, to help her, and you weren’t ready.” 

Indignation flowed through the Bond, only slightly tempered by understanding, and Luke sat up straighter, hand tightening around his saber, schooling his features into a confident mask. 

“I am now.” 

Ben schooled his own features, but couldn’t stop that old pang of grief. 

The boy had never looked more like Anakin than he did in that moment— and in that moment Ben wanted nothing more than to take Luke down into one of the caves and hide out there until the Imperials had moved on, to watch over as he slept, guarding the mouth of that cave with a hand on his ‘saber hilt—

But no. 

The disturbances these last few days, the timing of these droids, this message, _the survival of billions…_

_Lord Ravous._

Protecting Luke had been his sole motivation for so long… but it was his sworn duty to trust in the Force. 

“Perhaps,” he murmured. “Perhaps you are ready. Perhaps you are not.”

Perhaps it wasn’t _about_ being ready. 

Luke frowned, brows furrowing in confusion, in concern—

“Ben, we _have to_ help her!”

“Yes. We do.” He crossed his arms. Stroked his beard. 

_You’re our only hope._

Smiled. 

_No._ _I’m not._

“We must go to Veruna,” he said. “We must see to this mission she was entrusted to us… and we can see what she has been building, all these years.”

Luke blinked. “Wait—”

“She did not ask us to rescue her,” said Ben, and before the boy could interject: “she asked us to deliver the droids.”

“But—”

“Luke.” He laid a hand atop the one gripping the saber. “In the nineteen years we have been here, in the nineteen years your mother has been running, hiding, and fighting, not _once_ has she contacted either of us. That is how much she values your secrecy, your _safety._ For her to call upon us now… I cannot imagine how important this mission must be, and I’ve fought in a galaxy-wide war. Do you understand?”

Luke stared at him for a moment, utter turmoil in his blue eyes. 

Then he bowed his head. Thumbed the burnished hilt of his lightsaber. 

“Do not mistake me, Luke. I _absolutely_ intend to see her rescued. But we cannot do that without help, and we _should not_ prioritize her life over billions of others.” 

Luke nodded, still staring at his ‘saber.

Ben released his hand, and looked once more to the droids. 

“Artoo, I assume you arrived in an escape pod?”

_[Affirmative, General.]_

_General._ The word sent a shiver down his spine, and not the good kind. 

“Just Ben is fine, old friend.” 

R2’s primary lens whirred quietly, zooming in on his face. 

_[Inquiry: we together-worked during historical period - Clone Wars; yes/no]_

“That we did. I’m glad to see you’ve aged better than I have.” 

_[Statement, humorous: tell that to my central chassis.]_

Ben smiled. “I’m sure Luke here will be happy to see to that. How many hours ago did your escape pod jettison?” 

_[17:00 Core Standard.]_

Haarchaak. 

“We best not linger, then.”

 _[Affirmative_ ; _probability high that Lifeforms-Hostile: IMPERIALS are in pursuit > 90%] _

_“Kriff,”_ said Luke. “How am I going to explain this to Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru?” 

“I don’t know,” said Ben. “But you needn’t do so alone— we can strategize on our way to the farm.”

“Right.” The boy nodded again, and stood, opening a pouch of his toolbelt to conceal his ‘saber—

And then he stopped, suddenly radiating doubt.

Looked at Ben. 

“What can we even do? Thousands of Jedi couldn’t stop the Empire from rising…”

Ben sighed. “To be fair, we were taken by surprise. We didn’t know who our true enemy was until it was too late. You and I have an advantage in that sense— the Empire doesn’t know about _us.”_

The boy frowned. Stowed his ‘saber.

“Luke.” Ben touched his hand before he could move away. “A single Jedi can be the difference between defeat and victory, war and peace… but _anyone_ can make a difference, Force-sensitive or not.” 

“Is that what my mother has been doing?” Luke asked. “Building this ‘Alliance’ out of— normal people?” 

Ben considered chiding him for that way of phrasing it, but decided to address that later. 

“Yes,” he said. “Shall we go and meet them?” 

  
Ben’s perception to the Force may have been predominantly physical, but the only way to describe Luke’s excitement was _bright._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betcha can't guess who her 'sister' is


	9. Choice

**DS-1 Orbital Battle Station**

**Scarif Orbit**

  
  


Ravous was torn. 

On one hand, Project Stardust was finished at last, and she was on her way to a meeting of High Command— some of the most powerful men in the galaxy all gathered in one place, where she could browse through and _nudge_ their minds at her pleasure… 

On the other hand, she _finally_ had Amidala locked in a cell, guarded by Purge Troopers, hers by Imperial decree… and she had to listen to a bunch of arrogant Force-null old men plan the easiest military campaign in galactic history before she could _interrogate_ the cowardly traitor. 

She’d _told_ Tarkin it made more sense to extract the location of the rebel base _before_ the meeting, but no. Somehow, at some point, the stuffy old bastard had figured out her parentage, and didn’t trust her to interrogate Amidala in a timely fashion. 

The fact that he was _right_ made her fingers prickle with electricity. 

She strode swiftly down the polished black floor of a central passageway, silent but for the signature _clink_ of her armor. It was worth sacrificing some stealth— she felt every little pulse of alertness as the troops in her path heard it, of wary curiosity from officers who had never encountered her before, and beyond that… 

_1, 148, 309 permanent crew._

Enough to be a city— but it didn’t feel like one in the Force. The chorus of desperation and lust and despair that emanated from the underbellies of places like Coruscant was absent. Here there was only clear-headed, almost mechanical devotion, with a quiet undercurrent of focused anger— towards the Rebels, she assumed, for forcing them to turn the station’s power on an Imperial installation. 

It was almost… _calming._

Go figure. 

Ravous narrowed her focus from the lives around her to the faint pulses of gratitude and worry in the back of her mind. Giving her personal guards the day off was working as intended, then— slowly but surely increasing their devotion to her. As for her favorite Inquisitor… 

She reached out through their Force-bond, and smiled when a wave of suspicious irritation rebuffed her. 

Giving her Maul (what was left of him, at least) had gone a long way towards improving their professional relationship, but First Sister was just… too _clever_ to be played like the others. She never lost herself in the Dark Side like they did, had never come to actually _enjoy_ killing, and that slight aversion had led her to become a truly skilled manipulator. More than a few Inquisitors’ recruitment had been greatly accelerated by her talents— and some of them would never have been taken alive if it weren’t for her. 

Ravous would have made her Grand Inquisitor years ago if she wasn’t so fun to hunt with. 

She sent a pulse of fondness through the bond, and left her Number One to her meditation. 

She was halfway to the central turbolift when she spotted him—tall and rail-thin, stiff and gaunt, hair as grey as his well-starched uniform… 

“Uncle Wilhuff!” 

Tarkin’s already-sour face crinkled just slightly more— but he did not break stride, or react at all beyond meeting her gaze (approximately) and nodding. 

“Congratulations are in order,” said Ravous, falling into step beside him. “I was beginning to think this thing would _never_ be operational.” 

She was only partially teasing. The Grand Moff may have been a joyless busybody, but the Death Star _was_ originally his idea— and now a masterpiece of engineering. 

He replied without looking at her. 

“I pity those who fall for your facade of youthful impatience, Lord Ravous.” 

“Oh, I get plenty impatient," she drawled. "It just tends to involve lightsabers. Or pretty boys. Or handsome women. All three, if the Force favors me."

“Yes,” Tarkin drawled, “high command is positively _abuzz_ with rumors regarding both your powers and proclivities, of late.” 

She smirked behind her faceplate. _“Rumors?_ Is that what you think? I’d be happy to separate the truth from the hearsay, Uncle— just point me to your problem officers.” 

Finally, she felt something from him— just the faintest pulse of amusement, but… 

“While I’m sure that would be highly educational,” he said, “we _do_ have a campaign to oversee.” 

“Yes, how _is_ the Outer Rim, these days? Still trading favors with the Hutts?” 

The amusement soured into annoyance before disappearing entirely.

Ravous found herself a bit irritated as well; he had the most well-fortified mind of any null she’d yet encountered… and she _knew_ he must have learned how to do it during the Clone Wars. 

From a _Jedi._

“You,” he said, “are very much like your father, sometimes.” 

Ravous _almost_ faltered mid-step. 

She knew he’d fought beside Va— _Skywalker,_ during the War, but he rarely spoke of it, and when he did it was only in terms of tactics, risks he’d taken or clever ideas he’d had… 

Jealousy flared hot in Ravous’ chest… almost eclipsing the subtle aura of smugness that now surrounded Tarkin. 

She forced her voice to be even. 

“How long have you been waiting to deploy that?” 

He didn’t respond.

Ravous clenched her jaw, and stepped into the ‘lift beside him. 

The doors hissed shut, and with a slight surge of g-force, they rose towards the Northern Polar Command Center. 

She regarded Tarkin’s presence in the Force. Calm. Disgustingly self-confident. Like the eye of a tiny storm. 

She’d always thought that he felt the closest to Sith that a Null possibly could. His cold, military pragmatism could be fun, sometimes, when he let her take point on assaults or interrogate prisoners, but even his impressive mental shielding couldn’t hide the subtle disdain he felt towards both her and the Inquisitors. She was fairly certain it was a relic of the Clone Wars; her father had been an outlier— the vast majority of Force-sensitives Tarkin had to work with would have been self-limiting, moralistic Jedi, unsuited to military leadership, given command roles on a technicality. 

Unfortunate that his disdain carried over to Darksiders, but she supposed she couldn’t quite blame him. And he was so effective that she couldn’t even be _angry_ about it. 

...perhaps she could convince him to divulge the identities of other veterans who had been taught to shield. There had to be some, and if one or two were considered replaceable… 

The lift bobbed to a stop, and the doors opened before them. 

Stormtroopers snapped to attention all down the passageway as they approached the main conference room. 

Ravous basked in their excitement, awe, and respect. No small amount of envy either, directed not at her, but at the ‘troopers who had the honor of serving under her— for she alone fought _with_ her men, rather than sitting comfortable in orbit while they died for the Empire. 

Men were bickering as she and Tarkin entered the conference room. She surveyed them with a glance— Colonel Yularen, Generals Romodi, Molock, and Bast, _Chief_ General Tagge, Chief Admiral Motti, Chief Major Cass… 

And their surface thoughts might as well have been tattooed on their foreheads. 

The Force thrummed hungrily. 

_Focus. Control._

Tagge was speaking. 

“The Rebellion will continue to gain support in the senate—“

“The senate will no longer be of any concern to us,” said Tarkin. “I have just received word that the Emperor has dissolved the council permanently. The last remnants of the old republic have been swept away.” 

Surprise radiated through the Force, mostly mild, but more pronounced from some. 

“That’s impossible,” said Motti. “How will the Emperor maintain control without the senate?” 

Tarkin took his seat. “The regional governors now have direct control over their territories. Fear will keep the local systems in line— fear of this battle station.” 

Ravous stood beside him, surveying the Admirals and skimming over their surface thoughts with _just_ enough power for them to feel watched. 

“And what of the rebellion?” Motti leaned forward, interlacing his fingers on the table. “Lord Ravous failed to stop the rebels from obtaining a full technical readout of the station.”

Ravous blinked. Did he _really_ just—? 

“It is possible, however unlikely, that they might find a weakness and exploit it.” 

She resisted the urge to crush his windpipe. “They will do no such thing, Admiral. I have captured Amidala, and will soon extract from her the location of their primary headquarters. Technical readouts are of no use to the dead.” 

“Any attack against this station would be a useless gesture,” Cass said, as if _the Emperor’s apprentice hadn’t just spoken,_ “no matter what data they’ve obtained. This station is now the ultimate power in the galaxy. I suggest we use it.” 

Ravous’ heart pumped rage through her veins like hyperfuel through a starship. It took physical effort not to let it spill over and crush anything… 

But then she smirked. 

_None_ of these blunt instruments had any idea of her full power. 

“I suggest,” she said, savoring the low, rough edge the vocoder granted her voice, “that you commit all available personnel to searching both the technical readouts and the station itself for any possible weaknesses _before_ we engage the rebels.” 

Cass looked her in the faceplate, face professionally neutral. 

His Force presence, however, radiated disdain. 

“Your suggestion is noted, Lord Ravous.”

She focused on that disdain, following it past his surface thoughts to the source… and found confusion, irritation, _fear…_

Ah. 

He didn’t understand why she was here. Didn’t understand why the Emperor had given her the authority to attend meetings of High Command or requisition entire battalions, why she had a Star Destroyer of her own despite existing outside the chain of command, why almost everything about her was classified… 

He felt _threatened._

She could work with that. 

Before he could open his mouth again, Ravous focused her rage, grasped that knot of disdain and confusion and fear, and into it projected:

_The Emperor is planning something new._

An echo of his own thoughts. 

_Something important._

A slight addition, a step he could have and _might_ have made on his own, one that his mind readily absorbed, paving the way for… 

**_Lord Ravous is involved._ **

**_If I am on good terms with her..._ **

She left it at that. 

His own greedy ambition did the rest. He blinked, and looked at her again— curiously this time, but with a glint in his eye. 

“I agree with Lord Ravous,” he said. “We must be especially thorough in these matters, especially after the Erso breach. We cannot afford a repeat of the _disaster_ at Scarif.” 

Mild surprise pulsed out from several of the others, but so did satisfaction. 

Tarkin turned his head towards her— not enough to really look, but enough to communicate his understanding. He felt ever-so-slightly amused, in his typical dry sort of way. 

He looked back to the others. 

“Lord Ravous,” he said, “will provide us with the location of the rebel fortress posthaste, and we will crush the rebellion with one swift stroke.” 

As they debated the details, she turned her focus to the nauseatingly familiar Force signature in the eastern detention center… 

_Mother._

She’d made so many _plans_ for their first meeting… but none of them had accounted for the utter lack of guilt or remorse in Amidala’s signature when they’d met on that rickety rebel ship. 

It was almost as if… 

No, that couldn’t be it. Amidala was shrewd and cunning— there was no way she hadn’t figured out who Ravous wa— _had been._

...right? 

  
  


***

  
  
**Jundland Wastes**

Sweltering, bone-dry air whipped at Ben’s face and clothing despite the windshield of the speeder, bringing with it the occasional sting of windblown sand. He pulled his scarf a little tighter around his face to keep the dust out of his lungs. 

Between eye-blinks, the craggy hills and ravines disappeared, giving way to the emptiness of the ‘flats.

Beside him, Luke cranked more speed out of the engine. 

It wasn’t long before a tiny lump appeared on the horizon, and that lump grew until they were de-accelerating beside the entry dome of the Lars homestead. While Ben unfolded himself from the speeder, knees and back protesting, Luke hopped out and busied himself extricating the droids. 

They were just through the doorway when Owen came stomping up from below. 

“Gods _dammit,_ Luke, how many times have I told you _not_ t’let yer training get in th’way of yer—” 

He stopped mid-stride, staring. 

“Hello, Owen.” Ben stepped aside so the droids could pass. 

“Luke,” the farmer growled, crossing his arms, “care t’tell me what _my brand-new droids_ have t’do with your— _wizard_ stuff?” 

“We weren’t training!” Luke took off his sand-boots and dropped them in the bin. “This R2 unit had a message for Ben, an _urgent_ one— so I went over and—” he seemed to second-guess himself at the last second, and bit his lip before blurting: “It’s from my _mom!”_

Owen stared at him for a moment. Then that stare became a glare, focused on Ben. 

“Kenobi, what the _kark_ are you trying t’pull here? His mother is _dead!”_

Ben considered how to respond. 

Padme’s message did contain the phrase ‘nineteen years ago,’ but the less the Larses knew, the safer they’d be. 

They were wonderful people, but it took more than good intentions to resist interrogation. 

“Her death was faked,” he said, “to throw the Empire off her trail. She had been a leader of the opposition against Palpatine when he was Chancellor, and when he declared his Empire, such senators began to have unfortunate accidents, or disappear entirely. For her safety, and for Luke’s, she had to disappear.” 

Owen looked like he’d just been slapped. 

“What’s this about a message?” Beru crested the stairs, wiping her hands on a rag. “Oh, Ben! How are ya?” 

“Hello, Mrs. Lars.” He smiled. “I… find myself in something of a hurry, I’m afraid.” 

“A hurry? _You?_ Ben, what happened?” 

Ben took one look at Owen and decided it was best to let Luke do the talking. He gave the boy a nudge through their bond. 

“Auntie, my mom— she’s _alive!”_

Beru blinked. Tilted her head. Frowned. Narrowed her eyes. At Ben. 

Oh dear. 

“She’s with the Rebellion!” said Luke. 

Owen choked on his own spit. _"What."_

“Her ship got captured by the Empire, and she needs our help!” 

Ben laid a hand on the boys shoulder. 

_Center yourself, Luke._

“She did not ask us to rescue her,” he said, sending reassurance through the Bond, “and I do not intend to lead Luke in an attempt to do so.”

He felt Luke’s shock, his confusion at the reassurance… 

_I will not lead an attempt,_ he explained, _but I will support you in one._

“His mother asked us to deliver these droids to a friend of hers. Many innocent lives hang in the balance.” 

Owen’s expression turned positively thunderous. “Get out.” 

“Owen—” Beru laid a placating hand on his arm. 

“No, he _swore_ —” 

Luke stepped between his uncles and stood tall— shoulders back, head up, _shields_ tight to conceal the turmoil he was actually feeling—

“Uncle Owen,” he said, “Aunt Beru… I have to do this.”

They faltered, caught off-guard, and Ben felt Owen’s rage waver. 

“Honey,” said Beru, “you’ve never been off-planet before. It’s _dangerous_ out there—”

“I know!” Luke snapped. “I can _feel it!”_

Both the Larses jolted, eyes widening—

“I can _feel_ what the Empire’s doing! Every time they bomb a city or execute civilians, I _feel it!_ Every time I go to Anchorhead or Mos Espa I have to concentrate to _not_ feel the pain coming off the slaves and— and the _fear_ from people running from the Empire, and I am sick and tired of not doing anything about it!”

It was Ben’s turn to blink and stare, now. 

He’d never heard Luke _shout_ like that. 

From the look on Beru and Owen’s faces, neither had they.

_Karabast._

He knew the boy had to put more effort into psychic shielding than he did, but… 

Luke’s shoulders slumped. Ben felt his anger wane, eclipsed by guilt and concern for his shocked aunt and uncle… 

“Ben’s not trying to recruit me into anything. He’s told me all about my father and what happened to him, and how to _avoid_ making the same mistakes. He’s told me about the danger that’s out there.” 

Owen sat heavily on the couch. “Then… why the hells do you want to _go?_ You’re one man, Luke. You can’t beat the Empire.”

“Maybe not,” said Luke. “But… if I can make a difference for those people my mom talked about, even just a thousand of them, or a hundred, or just ten, or just _one…_ that’ll be a win in my book.” 

Pride bloomed in Ben’s chest. He let it flow freely through the Bond. 

“If it helps,” he said, “he will not be alone. His mother has spent the last nineteen years building a galaxy-wide network of allies— well-hidden allies.”

Beru joined her husband on the couch, looking equally overwhelmed. Luke knelt before them, took their hands… 

The Force pulsed with warmth. 

Ben watched with pride as the Larses gasped, their aches and pains suddenly soothed away. 

The boy had an innate knack for Force-healing. It was a pity Ben lacked the knowledge to help him cultivate it… 

The warmth faded. 

Luke bowed his head in thought. 

No one spoke for a few moments. Owen and Beru looked at their nephew through new eyes, their distress and confusion now tinged with baffled wonder. 

“I’m not a kid anymore,” he said at last. “And Ben hasn’t trained me t’be like the Jedi of his generation. He’s trained me t’be careful, to conceal my powers, and t’be subtle when I _do_ use them. I’m not gonna run in waving my lightsaber around.” 

Their wonder gave way to worry once more, in their expressions and in the Force… 

And Ben hated to interrupt, but time _was_ against them. 

“It bears mentioning,” he said, “that the Empire is looking for these droids.” 

Cold terror filled their Force signatures. Beru seized her husband’s free hand. 

“They’ve already deployed search teams all over the hemisphere. If they find the Jawas who sold you the droids…” 

Luke leapt to his feet. “We need to get out of here!” 

“What?” Beru’s eyes were wide, her face pale— “We can’t leave the farm!” 

“Stay here, then.” Ben winced at the surge of baffled distress from Luke, and sent patience through the Bond. “Tell the Imperials that I made off with both Luke and the droids. It might save you.” 

All three of them turned to stare at him, aghast. 

“Or,” he said calmly, “you could come with us to Mos Eisley, where we will secure passage off-planet. The Rebellion will give you shelter and protection. Luke’s mother is one of their founding members— you would be well cared for.” 

Owen slumped back into the couch. 

“Be mindful: if the Imperials think you are lying, they will hurt you.” 

**_What the kriff, Ben!?_** Luke’s mental voice was almost deafening. **_Why not just tell them they need to come with us??_**

Ben made certain to tighten his shields and project only calm before replying: _They will feel more confident and secure if they have a choice in the matter._

**_But they don’t! If they stay here, they’ll die!_ **

He looked away from the panicked farmers, to meet his apprentice’s gaze. 

_There is always a choice, Luke._

“Kark,” Owen breathed. _“Kark!”_

Beru slid her arms around him… but while he radiated fierce confusion, her surface thoughts were of locking up, of the Darklighters might watch the farm while they were gone, what was essential and what wasn’t, how much of it they could fit into the speeder, and—

— _too_ **_kriffing_ ** _young to fly up there without his family._

So when she looked up at Ben and nodded, he was only mildly —and pleasantly— surprised. 

“Luke,” she said, “would you be a dear and fetch the slugthrower? I have a feeling we’ll be needing it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In canon, Luke didn't immediately take the droids to Ben-- he waited overnight, which prompted R2 to run off, Luke went after him, Tuskens were involved... etc.  
> So by immediately going to Ben, Luke's shaved off at *least* 12 hours, probably more. They might have 24 hours before the Empire finds the Jawas. Then again, Padmé launching so many escape pods *did* prompt the Imps tp send out more search parties... 
> 
> And reminder, in case you didn't catch it in Ravous' passage: Barriss/First Sister IS currently aboard the Death Star ;) 
> 
> NEXT: mother-daughter bonding time! :D


	10. The Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all knew what you signed up for.
> 
> Reminder of what Ravous' faceplate/mask looks like: deviantart.com/robwzor/art/Sith-mask-555038874 , but white

**DS-1 Orbital Battle Station**

First Sister stepped into the lift behind Lord Ravous and assumed parade rest.

 **“Detention level,”** said the Sith. 

The doors hissed shut, and the inertial dampening field engaged with a hum. 

The numbers on the door display began to rapidly tick down. 

First Sister idly wondered how many meters per second they were traveling… but her attention soon returned to the miasma of barely-restrained hatred Ravous was exuding. 

It took some effort not to shiver. She may as well have been standing in a cryochamber. It was hard to _breathe._

And the Sith usually shielded both her mind and Force signature near-perfectly— even in combat. 

First Sister hadn’t felt her like this since… 

Karabast, since _Unduli._

Ravous was no longer an impulsive, thrill-seeking fifteen-year-old. Yes, she’d been hunting Amidala for years, but… 

Perhaps it wasn’t something the uninitiated could understand. For all that her powers had grown since embracing the darkness, First Sister was no true Sith… and for all that she often found herself envious of Ravous’ powers, she had no desire to be one. 

She had long theorized that reliance on anger to use the Dark Side gradually trained one’s brain to _default_ to anger much more frequently than to any other emotion. Even after months as her experimental subject, her _toy,_ Maul had almost never expressed anything other than rage at his circumstances. 

Such was the inherent cost of all hyper-specialization, she supposed— you wouldn’t send a rabid dog like Maul on an infiltration mission any more than you would send a stormtrooper to assassinate Jedi. 

She took another deep breath, doing her best to ignore the frigid pressure surrounding her Lord.

For all she knew, this was a perfectly proportional emotional response by Sith standards. Amidala was one of the Rebellion’s founding members, after all. Only High Command truly knew how many people she had inspired to throw themselves at the Empire like gnats against a ray-shield. 

So much meaningless _death._

But they had her at last. Whether they executed or turned her, this would be a crippling blow to the Rebellion, and without her… 

Maybe the fighting would die down, soon. 

Maybe First Sister could _rest._

There couldn’t be more than a few dozen Jedi left, and given the amount of Knights the Inquisitorius had dealt with, those that remained would be former Padawans, easily executed or turned… 

But Yoda was still out there. 

And as directly responsible as he was for the corruption and decline of the Order, First Sister _really_ didn’t want to be the one that finally found him. 

The lift slowed, and stopped. 

The subtle hum of inertial dampening abruptly ceased. 

The instant the door hissed open, Ravous was marching out, ignoring the dozens of Purge Troopers that snapped to attention around her, focused only on the cell at the end of the hall.

First Sister did not feel pity for Amidala. She did not flinch away from the violence about to take place. 

It was necessary. 

It was _all_ necessary. 

Soon the fighting would be over. 

  
  
  
  


*******

  
  
  
  
  


Padmé swallowed, and winced at the dryness of her own throat— and even that slight movement was enough to send another pang of hunger stabbing through her torso. 

No food or water since they cuffed her onto this… this _rack,_ no idea of how long ago that had been… 

No light. 

If not for the faint, humming vibrations of the ship systems, it would have been a deprivation chamber. 

Why hadn’t anyone come to question her yet? She must have been here for at _least_ a day at this point. Artoo would have found Obi-Wan by now, and even if— if they hadn’t, even if they’d been caught, the droids didn’t know the coordinates for HQ. Only command staff had them; Raddus and whomever else might’ve been stranded at Scarif would all rather eat their blasters than be taken alive, Typho was dead… 

That just left her. 

This had to be part of whatever interrogation was planned— using dehydration and starvation and sleep deprivation to wear her down… 

Slowly. 

As if they had all the time in the galaxy to extract HQ’s location from her. 

No. **_No._ **

She couldn’t let herself think like that— it would just do their job for them. She’d launched all twelve escape pods, and Tatooine was Hutt territory. Its people would respond to credits, not fear tactics, and that would delay the search parties long enough for Artoo to reach Obi-Wan. 

It would have to. 

After all, how many times had she exploited Imperial overconfidence? 

Artoo would have found Obi-Wan by now. Soon Fulcrum would have the plans. Every hour the Imperials spent trying to wear her down, the Rebellion grew closer to destroying the Death—

Something whirred and _clunked_ inside the wall of the cell. 

Then the lights came on, burning her retinas. She jerked against her bonds, knocking her head against the rack and pulling the unforgiving durasteel tight against her chafed wrists—

The door hissed open. 

Swallowing a cry of pain, Padmé blinked furiously… and between the bright splotches, she saw a dark figure step silently into her cell. 

_Kriff._

_Alright. Breathe, general. You expected this. You’ve_ **_prepared_ ** _for this._

Right. Yes. 

Slowly, the splotches began to shrink. 

Ravous hadn’t moved. 

They were just standing there, just within the now-closed door, watching. Their heavy cloak was gone, revealing the entirety of their custom armor. That skull-like faceplate kept going, three pieces fusing into one as it curved over the dome of their helmet. 

Padmé winced through another dry swallow, and schooled her features into a neutral, queenly mask. 

Then she focused on the most boring, mundane senate sessions she could remember. 

Ravous took a step further into the cell, and then another. Their boots made no sound— only their armor did, the soft _clink_ of their thighs brushing together…

They stopped an arm’s length away. Clasped their hands behind them. Black nanoprene flexed between plates of dull grey Beskar. 

Padmé stared impassively into the lateral slits of their mask.

**“You guard your mind even better than Tarkin.”**

Padmé blinked. 

**“Who taught you?”** Ravous took another step, until their greaves almost touched the bottom edge of the tilted rack— **“Kenobi? Skywalker? Tano? All three, perhaps?”**

She said nothing. The Tarkin bit was unexpected, but also transparent— a scrap of useless information, offered to make the prisoner think they might learn something use _ful_ by engaging with the interrogator… 

**“You’ve had dealings with many Force-sensitives,** **_General…_ ** **but the records are unclear on if you ever truly met Darth Vader.”**

Padmé said nothing. 

**“I think you did,”** said Ravous. **“I can feel it. The traces of him clinging to you.”**

She barely suppressed a full-body flinch, ignored the phantom grip around her neck, buried the memory of those livid yellow eyes—

 **“I think you know what one can do if they are** **_unrestrained_ ** **in their use of the Force…”**

She said nothing. 

**“...but perhaps you haven’t witnessed a true demonstration. Not** **_directly.”_ **

Her Sabacc-face didn’t falter. When she blinked, she did so casually, almost lazily. She’d stared down worse than this. 

Ravous tilted their masked head ever-so-slightly to one side. **“Tell me the location of your headquarters, and there will be no need for such a demonstration.”**

 _I will_ **_never_ ** _betray them, you_ **_monster._ **

**“There it is.”** Their vocoded voice deepened, and thickened, as if they were smirking— **“Rage.”**

Padmé’s jaw clenched without her permission. 

**“That’s what drives you, isn’t it? Not the** **_hope_ ** **you tell them to keep alive. Not the love you profess for democracy. That’s not enough. It’s the** **_hatred_ ** **that keeps you going. A pity you aren’t Force-sensitive. You might have made a decent Sith."**

Kark. 

She had to look away. She wouldn’t have been able to keep the anger off her—

An invisible pressure shoved her head back against the hard metal of the rack. 

**“What is the location of your primary headquarters?”**

She looked over their helmet, at the featureless ceiling of the cell. Said nothing. Thought of closed sessions and hearings and filibusters—

And then the memories _blurred,_ and began to fade… 

_No._

She grit her teeth, and pictured layers of silk wrapping around her mind, layers and layers blocking any searching light… 

The pressure returned, enveloping her entire body. 

It was like deep water, or heavy atmo, pressing in on her skull and down on her chest so hard she could only take quick, shallow breaths. She focused on budget reports, cold kaf, datapads glowing with passage after passage of mind-numbing, intentionally convoluted legislation… 

But soon her little breaths weren’t enough. Her lungs started to burn, her vision started to darken—

The pressure lifted. 

Padmé went limp, gasping for air. 

**“Most of the crew of the** **_Profundity_ ** **still lives, you know.”**

— _a vote of no confidence in Chancellor Valorum,_ she remembered, remembered the cool air of the senate and the voices of thousands supporting her—

_—some of the most trusted, skilled, and intelligent minds the Republic has to offer—_

**“I have many in custody, but a significant number made it to the surface of Scarif in escape pods, and are currently attempting to evade my forces.”**

_—near bankruptcy due to the cost of this war—_

_—essentially deregulate the banks—_

**“Almost a thousand lives,** **_General._ ** **All in your power to save.”**

Padmé’s heart ached, but she would not _—could not—_ put those thousand before the billions that the Death Star would _—_

_No._

_—new lines of credit a small price to pay to finance the war what of moral responsibility can’t negotiate with those animals_ **_vote now vote now vote now_** _—_

**“Give me the location, and I will have their death sentences commuted to labor.”**

Her hands clenched into fists, shock-collar burns flashing through her mind’s eye _—_

**_No._ **

_—kaf machine in the senatorial lounge is broken again—_

_—hear about Senator Chuchi and that strapping Clone Commander?_

_—I think some of them have been threatened—_

She said nothing. 

The pressure returned, harder and faster and _crushing._ Padmé _couldn’t_ breathe this time, couldn’t move— 

**“Who is on Tatooine?”**

_No!_

**“You would not attempt a repair run without some assurance of safety on the surface. You have allies there.”**

_I will sign no treaty I will sign no treaty I will sign no treaty I will sign no treaty—_

**“Someone Ahsoka Tano connected you with, perhaps?”**

_I will sign no treaty I will sign no treaty I will sign no treaty I will sign no treaty—_

**“Yes, I know who** **_Fulcrum_ ** **is. The ISB knows. The entire Imperial Navy knows. They’re all keeping an eye out for her. One of my lieutenants has a…** **_personal interest_ ** **in her capture, you see. Her conversion to our way of thinking. I admit, I would enjoy seeing that… but not so much that I cannot be convinced to spare her that fate. To give her a quick, painless death.”**

_Go fuck yourself._

Ravous stared at her for a moment longer. Then they began to pace, back and forth in front of her, never looking away. Their gauntleted hands hung half-clenched at their sides, almost claw-like. 

Again Padmé’s thoughts began to blur and fade, and again she focused, on senate gossip and holo-tabloids and vapid fundraisers… 

And all the while her captor paced as if they were the one trapped, like an animal in a cage, itching to lunge and bite—

**“Padmé Amidala Naberrie.”** If a droid could growl, it would sound like this. **“No** **_Skywalker?_ ** **”**

...what. 

**“No mention of the husband you betray with every one of your insipid speeches, whose work you live to undo?”**

_What?_

How did… 

Well, the ISB could've found their marriage license, but why—?

 **_No._ ** _It doesn’t matter._

_I will sign no treaty I will sign no treaty I will sign no treaty I will sign no treaty_

Ravous stopped pacing… and lifted one hand to the opposite forearm. 

**“I offered you the easy path,”** they said, **“but I won’t pretend I’m not pleased that you’ve chosen the hard one.”**

Then there came a _click,_ and a hiss, and they pulled off their right gauntlet, baring pale skin notched and criss-crossed with faint pink scars—

The gauntlet hit the floor with a loud _clang._

Ravous stepped forward, reaching out, and Padmé leaned back as far as she could, arms straining against the cold metal cuffs—

To no avail. 

They palmed her forehead, and the true pain began. 

It was like a dull hook to the brain, piercing and twisting and _tugging_ at her thoughts, tearing through the senatorial tedium, from budget disputes to the Banking Clan to Clovis and Anakin _beating him_ —

 _Both of you stop_ —

_You don’t have a say in this!_

_I will sign no treaty I will sign no treaty I will sign no treaty_

—broken glass and blood on the carpet—

_I will sign no treaty I will sign no treaty I will sign no treaty_

_—doing it to_ **_protect_ ** _you—_

 _—_ heat and ash _—_

_I will sign no treaty I will sign no treaty_

_—together you and I can rule the galaxy—_

**_—sign no treaty—_ **

_—don’t you turn against me!_

_I love you—_

**_Liar!_ **

**_You brought him here to kill me!!_ **

_No!_

And then the memory was pulled up from within her and laid bare _—_ the pain in her throat and between her legs and the bright lights and the beep of heart monitors and _—_

_Obi-Wan—_

—a tiny cry—

And then it stopped. 

Ravous tore their hand away as if burned, and Padmé’s head fell limply forward, throbbing, her heart pounding as the Sith staggered back and whispered: 

“...Luke?” 

Padmé’s world ground to a halt. 

Ravous reached up, slowly, with their naked hand and their armored one—

Another quiet hiss filled the sudden silence, and the helmet came off. 

Bright yellow eyes stared back at Padmé, rimmed with red and wide with shock. Scar-notched brows crinkled in confusion. Scarred lips parted, wordless. 

Too-pale skin glowed in the harsh light of the cell. 

And still Padmé recognized her. 

The shape of her eyes, the curve of her chin and jaw and cheekbones, the color of that short, helmet-tousled hair—

It was like looking in a distorted mirror. 

All the breath left Padmé’s body in a wounded rush. Her pulse pounded in her ears. Her heart spasmed in her chest. 

_No._

She barely noticed the helmet striking the floor. 

_Please, Force,_ **_no_ ** **—**

The Sith parted all-too-familiar lips, and in a rough, quiet voice, asked: 

“I have a brother?” 

_Leia._

Padmé couldn’t breathe. 

“You…” Leia **—** Ravous— _her_ brows slanted down, furrowing over those unnatural eyes while her lips curled back into a snarl **—** “You **_separated us!”_ **

She couldn’t speak. 

Her daughter surged forward and seized the collar of her shirt, pale face contorted in fury **—**

**_“Why.”_ **

Padmé’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly, her eyes taking in each and every cruel detail of the young woman’s face **—**

**_“Why??”_ **

“I **—”** this couldn’t be real this couldn’t be real this _couldn’t be real_ **—**

“To protect you,” she whispered. 

“Do I **_look_ ** like I need protection?”

Tears blurred Padmé’s vision. “Leia…” 

“That is **_not_ ** _my name.”_

“It is!” Padmé rasped. “Palpatine **—** he stole it from you!” 

“ _The Emperor_ gave me **_everything."_** Her eyes seemed to glow brighter, wide and glaring as her lips pulled into a feral smile **—** "Did you feel your ship struggle to break away from that cruiser? That was _me,_ using the skills my father taught me.” 

It was like a saber to the heart. 

Padmé blinked through the tears, tasting salt. “Your father is dead.” 

“Oh, one of them is. And he died a hero, but the other… he has been a better parent than you _ever_ were.” 

Padmé was shaking, her eyes fixed on the scars that marked the young woman's face, that notched her brow and nose and hairline and ran jagged through her lip… “He’s hurt you.” 

“So I could heal stronger.” She grinned even wider. “Strong enough to _crush_ your rebellion and bring _order_ to the Galaxy.” 

This **—** this couldn’t be happening.

They must have drugged her, or— or she’d just been in here long enough to hallucinate all on her own because this _couldn’t be happening._

Her daughter was _dead,_ killed by the Empire along with Bail and Breha. Her sweet little girl was _gone,_ this _couldn't be her **—**_

Ravous let go of her collar, and clamped that gauntleted hand around her throat, voice becoming a low, bone-shaking growl _ **—**_

**_“Where is my brother?”_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Denial is a helluva drug.
> 
> NEXT: Scum and Villainy  
> In which Aunt Beru is ride or die, and Luke develops a sudden and unfortunate crush.


	11. Scum and Villainy

**Felucia**

**120 Hours BBY**

  
  
  
  


Ahsoka spat blood, grit her teeth, and kept walking. 

Sweat stung the scrapes on her face and lekku. Her cloned montral-tip itched. Every step sent an ache deep into her bruised ribs. 

But at least that was another Inquisitor down. A _strong_ one, too. Not as good as Bar— as _Her,_ but still. Progress. 

She wove swiftly through the jungle, steps quick and light, basking in the thriving symphony of its Force signature. 

Even all the battles that had been fought here during the War only formed a few cold notes among a million warm ones. 

Was this what Kashyyyk was like? Minus the brutal Imperial occupation, anyway? 

Maybe she’d see if Mon had anything that needed doing out that way. She wanted to climb a Wroshyr Tree ever since that Wookiee told her about them back on that karking hunting ground of a moon… 

Something moved in the foliage. 

Ahsoka froze mid-stride, crouching to make herself a smaller target, and slinked back into the shadow of a giant blue-green vase of a flower to listen. 

Mantas warbled as they swooped through the canopy. 

The clicks and chirps of insects bounced off bulbs and trunks, each little sound building her map of the jungle around her… 

There— something moving through the ferns, something large but slow…

_Just a Gelagrub._

She let out a slow, silent breath. 

The Beskar lining of Imperial xenophobia was that none of their soldiers could hear for kriff. They might have actually had her this time, if they’d chosen an arena she wasn’t so well-evolved for. 

As the ‘grub shuffled away in the distance, Ahsoka took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and let out a high-pitched, trilling chirp. 

A few moments later the faintest echo of it bounced back onto her montrals, rendered tinny by the hull of her ship. 

_Not far, now._

She braced herself and pressed onward, brushing away her tracks with the Force.

A klick and a half later, she slipped through a thicket of eerily breathing stalks, darted up and over a hulking, fungus-ridden log, and finally laid eyes on her trusty CR90. 

It took some effort not to fall on her ass in relief. 

By the time she got within blaster range, the ramp was already lowering— and by the time it was all the way down, Rex had already leapt out and started run toward her. 

_“Feirfek!”_ He jogged to a halt, hands flying up to grip her by the pauldrons, golden eyes darting from scrape to bruise to pained expression… 

She saw the moment he realized.

“It was a trap, wasn’t it.” 

“Yeah.” Ahsoka slipped out of his grasp, clapped him on the back, and made for the ramp. “If our friend in the ISB isn’t already karked, he will be soon.”

Rex followed quietly (for a human), but she could feel him in the Force, his emotions muffled like club music through a ‘fresher wall as he tried not to radiate worry, frustration… 

“Go on,” she sighed. “Say it.”

He huffed. “Blackmail works better when the enemy has morals.”

“It worked for three years.”

“Do I need to get you a mirror, Sir?” His voice was flat, to worried to earnestly tease. 

“I’ll be fine, _Captain._ ” She stepped up onto the ramp, and was slightly thrown off by the feeling of metal beneath her feet after hours of uneven, squishy ground. “What did I miss?” 

Rex didn’t answer… and when she reached for him in the Force, she found fear. 

And _grief._

She stopped at the top of the ramp, bracing a forearm against the wall, and turned to look at him. 

“Rex… what happened?”

He met her eye. Swallowed. Wet his lips. Nodded down the passageway, towards the cockpit.

“A lot. We should get offworld, first.” He looked her over again. “And get you patched up.” 

Right. 

She’d probably been instinctually drawing on the Force for hours now, on top of her acrobatics and track-covering. 

Ugh. 

She was gonna be _so sore_ tomorrow. 

“After you, Rexter.” 

Ten minutes, a half-dozen bacta patches, and two shots of Nar Shaddaa moonshine later, Ahsoka cranked them into hyperspace and slumped back into her seat. 

Then she looked at Rex. 

He held her gaze for a moment, expression growing more and more reluctant… but then he reached out to the comm console, tapped in a long code, turned a few dials—

Chaos leapt out of the holo-emitter. 

Ships. _Rebel_ ships, X-Wings and corvettes and light cruisers and even the kriffing _Profundity,_ barreling into orbit of a planet covered in bright turquoise seas and scattered islands— towards two Star Destroyers, which were hovering over… 

A shield gate? 

“Where is this?” She asked. “ _When_ is this?” 

“Scarif,” said Rex. “Two days ago.” 

_Scarif?_ She wracked her brain for the name, for any memory of shallow seas and archipelago… 

“Outer Rim. Apparently the Imps had a secret base there. For architectural and engineering records.” 

... _had?_

The holo skipped forward, and suddenly the shield gate was just below, fighters bursting like tiny fireworks all around while one of the ‘destroyers listed to port and _sliced into the other_ —

Ahsoka’s heart leapt in her chest. 

“What…” her mouth was dry, all of a sudden. “What was the objective?”

“Stealing the plans for the Empire’s newest weapon.” 

She tore her eyes away from the plummeting warship to look at Rex… and despite the unthinkable victory unfolding in front of them, his expression was grim. 

He reached out again, and turned another dial. 

The holo skipped forward. 

A new object appeared, _blocking out half the stars,_ too large to be anything but a moon but striped too uniformly to not be artificial, and with a massive crater-like dish in its upper hemisphere—

Eight beams of brilliant green flashed out of that dish, fusing into one which shot toward—

“No.” 

Rex crossed his arms. “Yeah.” 

Ahsoka watched in horror as a ball of light ignited on the planet’s surface, sending out a shockwave kilometers wide and spreading fast, searing away cloud and sea and land—

“They call it the Death Star.” 

She felt sick. 

And _karking furious._

“It’s a planet-killer.” 

This was where the Kyber had been going. 

This was what they’d abducted Erso for. 

_This_ was what they’d gassed the Geonosians to hide. 

Ahsoka didn’t realize how tightly she was clenching her fists until her knuckles started hurting. 

“Did…” she opened her hands, wet her lips— “Did we get them? The plans?” 

“Yeah,” he said. “At a cost.” 

“Rex.” She had to fight to keep her voice even. “Just kriffing _tell me.”_

For several pounding heartbeats, he just stared into the rushing glow of hyperspace. 

Then he met her eye, and sickly dread settled over her. 

He hadn’t looked so defeated since the _Purge._

“Rex…” 

“The Tantive,” he said. 

No. 

No no no—

“Ravous captured it.” 

Ahsoka’s blood ran cold. 

_Padmé._

“Ahsoka—” 

She held up a hand, mind racing, instincts screaming _go now save her make them_ **_bleed_ ** _for daring to touch your family not again not again_ **_not again_ ** **—**

“Ahsoka, _breathe.”_

She did. Fast and shallow. But it was something. 

She couldn’t just rush in, she had too many scars from just rushing in, but—

She had to do _something_. 

_Assess the situation, weight the risk and reward, make a plan_ —

“Have the Imps announced her capture?” 

“No.”

Alright. So they were still interrogating her— and as the Voice of the Rebellion, ISB protocol would have them and turn her, which would _never_ work… and every hour the Imps wasted trying was another hour for the Alliance to act. 

What else? 

“Where did they capture her?” Ahsoka asked. “What was she doing?” 

“Made a pass through the battle,” he said. “Picked up the plans and then jumped away. Ravous caught up with her over Tatooine.” 

What? 

That was… _out of the way._ Hutt territory was _never_ the safest bet, and Padme _never_ took unnecessary risks, so… 

She had allies there. Someone she trusted to get the plans to the Alliance. 

“Rex.” 

“Ahsoka.” 

“I… I need to meditate. Can you…?” 

He smiled sadly. “Of course. Where we headed?” 

She thought about that for a moment… but there was really only one answer. 

She couldn’t rescue Padmé alone, or even with an average attack squadron— and there was only one place that fleet could have launched from. 

“The Gordian Reach,” she said. “Yavin System. There’s some old ruins I’ve been meaning to see.” 

Rex forced a cocky smirk. “I hear the locals are pretty interesting too.” 

Ahsoka smiled as much as she could, and looked back out at hyperspace. 

_Just hold on, Padmé._

_We’re coming._

“‘Soka.” 

She glanced over. 

He’d turned in his seat to fully face her, leaning forward with his forearms braced on his knees. 

“The entire Alliance has seen that holo, and they’re spreading it to everyone they can. The galaxy will know that they _can_ stand up to the Empire.” There was a fire in his eyes. “This is a turning point.” 

_It has to be_ hung unspoken in the air between them. 

  
  
  
  


*******

  
  
  
  


**Mos Eisley**

**Tatooine**

  
  
  
  
  


Luke eased off the accelerator, and let the speeder cruise onto the main road of the spaceport. 

He hadn’t exactly known what to expect, but… 

Well, he hadn’t expected a city to be so _beige._ It was just more desert in a different shape— squares and domes and towers, all the same color as the sand. 

The _people,_ though… 

A lot of them were human, or at least human-shaped under their cloaks and dust-masks, but here and there he saw arm-walking dugs, jawas riding a huge, long-necked Ronto, a group of short, black-eyed spacers with horns in the middle of their foreheads… 

“Eyes on the road!” Owen grunted. 

Right. 

Womp-rats scattered out of the way, but no one sentient seemed at all worried, even as the speeder passed within arm’s reach of them. Luke actually had to stop entirely while a pair of Toydarians buzzed casually across the road in front of him… 

And then there were stormtroopers. 

Six of them blocked the road, armor bright in the midday sun, blasters black as night. 

And Luke had the droids in the backseat. 

Kriff. 

He’d painted Artoo red and Threepio black, but they were still obviously an astromech and a protocol droid, and—

“Do you want to handle this,” said Ben, perfectly calm, “or shall I?”

“Uh—” he glanced at the old man and found him all but lounging in the passenger seat, an easy smirk on his face. “You. Definitely you.” 

“Relax, dear.” Beru laid a hand on Luke’s shoulder from behind. “I’m sure Ben's faced much worse odds than this.”

Ben said nothing. Not until they’d come to a stop again, two troopers on either side of the speeder and one in front, rifles held casually across their fronts.

Luke put on his best Sabacc-face. 

“How long have you had these droids?” asked the one with the orange pauldron. 

“‘bout three or four seasons,” said Ben, in a flawless Jundland drawl. “They’re up fer sail if y’want them.” 

_What._

“Let me see your identification.” 

_Kriff._

Ben just smiled. 

“You don’ need t’see our identification,” he said… and Luke felt the Force softly pulse around him. 

For a moment, the trooper just stared at them, and Luke’s heart leapt into his throat—

But then he sort of… relaxed, let his rifle fall to his side, and repeated: 

“We don’t need to see your identification.”

 _A mind trick!_ Luke had to fight to keep his eyes from widening. 

“These ain’t the droids yer lookin’ for.” 

The ‘trooper turned to the others. “These aren’t the droids we’re looking for.” 

“We can go 'bout our business.” 

“You can go about your business.” 

“Move along.” 

“Move along!” The trooper stepped back, and waved them through. 

Luke very carefully accelerated again. 

At Ben’s word, he parked the speeder beside a dirty-looking, dome-roofed block of a building. There were other speeders there, and bikes too. A huge, green-scaled Trandoshan leaned against the side of the place, glaring at anyone who got too close to the vehicles— and as Luke hopped out of the speeder, they shoved off the wall and stalked over, getting taller and taller as they did. 

Luke stood his ground, and did his best to look casual. 

“Ten creds for a spot,” they hissed. 

Oh. Right. He reached for a pouch on his belt, but Ben was already there beside him, dropping the credits into the Trandoshan’s clawed hand. 

Luke turned back to the speeder, where Owen was helping Beru out. Once she was good, he tossed a spare cloak over Threepio and pulled on his own hood. Combined with the respirator, it hid most of his face. 

“Here.” 

He turned to find Ben wrapping a shemagh over his mouth and nose, and holding out a spare. 

He put it on, eyeing a pair of mean-looking spacers as they slouched through the door of the building. 

It… really didn’t look like much. The same plain adobe, a few antennae sticking up from the low roof, smaller than most of the building’s around it… 

“You really think we’re gonna find a pilot here that’ll take us to—” _Veruna,_ he didn’t say. “That’ll take us?” 

“Spacers are like any other migratory lifeform,” said Ben. “They gather at watering holes.”

Luke wrinkled his nose. 

The place had a haze of greed, suspicion, and foggy lust he could almost _smell._

He really doubted there was much _water_ inside. 

“Yes,” Ben chuckled, ambling toward the entrance, “do watch your step. This place can be a little… rough.” 

Luke straightened up, shoulder back and chin up. “I’m ready for anything.” 

Ben just smiled sadly. 

“Owen,” he said, “Beru. Would you mind keeping an eye out?”

What little of Owen’s face wasn’t covered by his hood or respirator scrunched grumpily— but Beru nodded, and leaned back against the side of the speeder. “We’ll comm ya if we see anything. Prob’ly best if the droids stay here, anyway.” 

“I completely agree. Come along, Luke.” 

Inside, the cantina was dim, loud, and _packed._ Luke saw at _least_ a dozen different species leaning against the bar, huddled in corners, or lounging in the booths— furry, four-eyed Talz, starry-eyed Rodians, tail-headed Twi’lek, people with what looked like _horns_ coming out of their jawbones… 

_Stay close, Luke._

He snapped his eyes back to Ben’s shrouded form, and followed him through the crowd. The smell of engine grease and dust hung thickly in the air, mixing with sweet-smelling smoke that clung to Luke’s nose. He could hear Huttese, Bocce, and Standard, glasses clinking together, and over it all was some kind of music— an upbeat, happy sort of tune… 

Ben sidled up to the bar like he belonged there, and immediately struck up a conversation with a human man in a flightsuit. 

Luke leaned on the bar next to him, dazed. 

He’d never seen so many people in one place before. Never _felt_ so many. Their Force signatures pressed in around him from all sides, buzzing with thoughts. 

_Chaos, yet Serenity._

He took a deep breath. Focused on keeping his shields up. Looked around. 

It seemed like humans were the minority here. He spotted the musicians, five hairless, bulb-headed guys blowing into tubular metal instruments, and next to them… 

Oh. 

Oh wow. 

A shirtless near-human man leaned against the wall beside them, one muscular arm curled possessively over the shoulders of a lithe male Twi’lek. The man was something like a Twi’lek himself, except with horn-like things up top and his head-tails hanging down in front, framing his pecs, the tips slowly curling and uncurling over his chiseled abs... 

—and Luke was staring. 

He snapped his gaze up to the man’s face... and found him staring back. 

And _grinning._

With teeth like a Krayt Dragon. 

As he watched, those sharp teeth parted and an agile tongue slithered out, tracing what _would_ have been called canines on a human while the man arched one brow marking, still looking him dead in the eye. 

A hot thrill raced down Luke’s spine. 

He couldn’t look away fast enough. 

Was— was that _flirting?_ Or a threat? He knew smiling was only _actually_ smiling for a few near-human species, but—

Someone shoved his shoulder. 

Some taller than him, with green skin, huge dark eyes, and some kind of lumpy throat-sacs that bulged and shrank as he sort of— _croaked?_

“Sorry,” said Luke, “I don’t speak your language.” 

He turned back to the bar, only for someone else to tap him, hard and insistent— a near-human this time, half his face warped by what _might’ve_ been a burn—

“He doesn’t like you.” 

Luke glanced between him and throat-sac guy. “I’m sorry?”

Again he tried to turn back to the bar— and the near-human grabbed his shoulder, tugged him back around face to melty face—

 _“I_ don’t like you either.” He leaned closer, eyes wide, alcohol thick and stale on his breath. “Y’better watch yourself. We’re wanted men. I have th’death sentence in twelve systems!” 

“I’ll be careful,” said Luke, Sabacc-face still firmly in place despite— _everything_ —

Melty-Face grabbed his arm. 

“You’ll be _dead!”_

Luke felt a questioning nudge from Ben’s side of their Bond—

But the nudge against his stomach was harder. 

A blaster. 

There was a _blaster_ poking him in the gut—

Luke didn’t think.

One instant Melty-Face was _in_ his face, finger on the trigger. The next he was flying back into his friend, both of them sprawling to the floor, a bolt of plasma hitting the ceiling—

And Luke’s hand was outstretched. 

The Force. 

He’d used the _Force_ in _public—_

“Why you little—” Melty-Face raised his blaster again, pointing it right at Luke’s torso—

There was a sound like a motivator bursting, and a flash of light. 

Luke cringed away, shielding his face with his arms— 

Someone screamed in pain. 

What? 

He looked. 

Melty-Face was on the floor, writhing, clutching at the smoking, bloody wreck of his blaster-hand. 

It’d _backfired._

Someone else touched his shoulder, and Luke jolted, whipping around, hand twitching towards his ‘saber-pouch. 

Ben. 

It was just Ben. 

“Was that—” he glanced back at the injured man. “Did you just—” 

Ben smiled mysteriously. “It was that or slice his hand off, and we _are_ trying to lay low. This is Chewbacca, by the way.” 

Ah. 

So _that_ was what a Wookiee looked like up close. 

They were _huge_ — seven and a half feet easy _,_ and maybe it was just the fluff, but they _looked_ pretty kriffing solid. 

“He’s first mate on a ship that might suit us,” said Ben. 

Chewbacca made a gurgling sort of growl, and held out a hand that could have wrapped all the way around a human head. 

“Oh!” Luke took it, and faltered at the texture— tougher than a human’s, almost leathery, but still soft. His fur was soft too, where tufts of it brushed Luke’s wrist. 

“You must hate it here,” he murmured. 

Chewbacca tilted his head to one side. 

“I— your fur, I mean! You must be overheated, that's all. I’m Luke?” 

The Wookiee blinked down at him. Then he let go of Luke’s hand, thumped him on the back, and let out a warbling roar as he stepped past. 

Luke glanced at Ben. 

The old man smirked, eyes twinkling in the dim light of the cantina. 

They followed Chewbacca through the crowd, towards an alcove in the far wall and the booth wedged into it. 

The Wookiee sat first, and Ben on the other side. Luke slid in beside Ben, and found himself across from a human male not much older than he was. 

A _really handsome_ human male. 

His skin was smooth and lightly tanned, his eyes bright and clever. He sat back in the booth, completely at ease, the collar of his white shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest _don’t look at his chest_ —

“Han Solo,” he said confidently, mercifully looking at Ben. “Captain of the Millennium Falcon.” 

His hair looked like he’d just hopped out of a roofless speeder, but... in a _stylish_ way, somehow? 

“Chewie tells me you’re lookin’ for passage to the Naboo system.” Han nodded sideways at the Wookiee, exposing the strong angle of his jaw. Then he leaned forward, bracing his forearms on the table, putting his dextrous hands on full display.

“If it’s a fast ship,” said Ben. 

_“Fast ship?”_ Han arched a brow. “You’ve never heard of the Millennium Falcon?” 

“Should I have?” 

Han smirked cockily.

Luke _really_ didn’t need this right now. 

“It’s the ship that made the Kessel Run in less than twelve parsecs.” 

He didn’t know what that meant, but Ben didn’t seem impressed… 

“I’ve outrun Imperial starships,” said Han, and _looked Luke in the eye_ _oh kriff_ — “Not the local bulk cruisers, mind you— I’m talking about the big Corellian ships.” 

Luke’s eyes widened. _Corellian?_ But those had the newest fuel systems, hyperdrives— _everything!_

And his Sabacc-face must’ve slipped then, because Han looked him over, roguish smirk returning in full force, and said: 

“That _fast_ enough for ya, prettyboy?” 

Thank kriff the light was so bad in here. Luke could _feel_ himself blushing.

  
  
  
  


*******

  
  
  
  
  


Ravous stalked through the halls of the command deck, blood aflame. 

Obi-Wan Kenobi. 

That cowardly terrorist had _given her brother to_ **_Obi-Wan Karking Kenobi._ **

Ravous had known she was deluded, but _Sith Kriffing Hells,_ **_r_** ** _eally??_ **

“Ah, Lord Ravous.” Tarkin stood before the main viewscreen, admiring the kilometers-wide plume of steam rising from what was once the Scarif Citadel. “I trust you’ve made progress with the prisoner?” 

It took her a moment to answer. A moment to speak at something quieter than a furious roar. 

**“Yes,”** she said. 

_I have a brother._

_A twin brother._

_And the man who murdered our father has almost certainly trained him as a Jedi._

**“I have extracted information of great importance to the Empire.”**

Tarkin raised an eyebrow dispassionately. “Oh?”

 **“It…”** _is unacceptable, it’s obscene, it’s_ **_criminal_ ** _—_ **“It falls under the purview of the Inquisitorius.”**

The Grand Moff turned away from the view screen to face her fully. “Another Jedi in the Rebellion, then?” 

_Two Jedi. It’ll be two Jedi soon, they_ ** _indoctrinated my brother_** **_knowing full well what it will bring down on him_** —

**“Yes.”**

“...is that _all_ you managed to learn?” 

_I had to step out, I couldn’t stay, I would have killed her_ —

 **“For now,”** she bit out. **“I could have extracted more, but we need her alive for the time being.”**

Tarkin regarded her for a moment, expression utterly neutral. 

“Pardon me, Sir.” 

She turned— an officer, standing over by one of the command consoles, looking at her— 

“It’s just that I have the quartermaster’s logs right here, and there don't seem to be any chemical interrogation aids requisitioned within the last cycle. The last several cycles, in fact. I’d be happy to send in a standard interrogation team to expedite the process." 

The bridge went very quiet, then. 

Ravous stared at him. 

He stared back, perfectly confident in his _utter disrespect._

Jaw clenched so hard it creaked, fists clenched so hard they shook, Ravous looked at Tarkin. 

Because she had authority but _he_ was in command here and she couldn’t touch even the most impudent, idiotic personnel without his permission because this was _all another karking test_ —

Tarkin’s expression soured slightly… but he nodded. 

The officer’s console exploded in a shower of sparks, metal frame shrieking as it was crushed. The man jolted back, eyes wide, radiating shock and confusion—

 **“What,”** Ravous growled, **“is your name, soldier?”**

He blinked. Glanced at the console, back at her, assumed parade rest— 

“Marlowe, Sir. Sergeant Kerrick Marlowe.” 

**“A pleasure to meet you, Sergeant.”** She let her anger flow, imbuing her voice with pure, merciless confidence, and commanded: **_“Shoot yourself in the foot.”_ **

His face wrinkled in confusion. 

His hand, however, obeyed quite readily. 

A dozen officers flinched as the blaster-bolt seared a hole in his boot and the fragile flesh within. Most of them stiffened at the sound of his agonized howl. 

Ravous smiled behind her faceplate. **“So clumsy, Commander.”**

“What—” Marlowe looked up at her from where he’d fallen, clutching his foot. “How—” 

The confusion and animal pain made it quite easy to slip into his mind, to make every word penetrate directly into his panicked little hindbrain.

 **“I am the Emperor’s fist,”** she said. **“He has given me full authority to hunt down and eliminate corruption, treason, and** **_insubordination_ ** **, via any method I choose… and I have** **_so_ ** **many to choose from. Now… take off your clothes.”** ****

“Wh-what?”

**_“Take off your clothes."_ **

She made the command _just_ weak enough that he could be seen fighting it… but it was a fight he could not possibly hope to win. 

Only when he was standing nude in the middle of the bridge, pale and sweating, shivering with fear and pain, did she release her hold on him. 

He fell like a puppet with its strings cut, landing hard on his hands and knees. Breathing noisily. 

“If you are quite finished,” Tarkin drawled, “We _do_ have threats against the Empire to address.”

Ravous watched the man cower for a moment before answering. Watched his soft little body shake, watched him try to hide his flaccid manhood from his fellows… 

**“Dismissed, Sergeant.”**

“Y-yessir!” He snatched up his crumpled uniform and stumbled to his feet, struggling not to put weight on the injured one. Limped off of the bridge.

Ravous turned to Tarkin. 

“What methods have you employed in your interrogation of Amidala, Lord Ravous?” 

**“Sleep deprivation. Dehydration. Starvation. Some pain. Threatening her allies did nothing. I did manage to read her mind, somewhat.”**

She savored the fear that rippled out of the other officers upon hearing that. Let it feed the roaring flame in her chest. **“She has, however, been trained to resist mental invasion. I will need to wear her down further before I can learn more.”**

Tarkin considered that, eyeing the devastated planet below… and Ravous could feel the faintest note of sadistic pride escape his shields.

“Amidala possesses great resolve,” he mused. “That much is clear. Perhaps she has not yet been sufficiently demoralized.” 

Ravous followed his gaze. Nothing remained of the citadel; what wasn’t incinerated had been pulverized by the concussive force of the blast, or consumed by the boiling tsunami that followed. Clouds of shrapnel still hung in orbit, glittering as they tumbled through the void.

**“You propose a demonstration.”**

“A threat first, I think. A demonstration _after_ she refuses to surrender her allies.” 

Hm. A sound strategy in principle, and the entire point of this station was to pose one massive threat… 

**“I assume you have a planet in mind.”**

The Grand Moff looked at her again, almost… searchingly. 

She didn’t like that. 

“I have several in mind,” he said at last. “But the Emperor has made it clear that you are to have input in these matters.” 

Ah. 

Another test. 

Very well… 

There was no shortage of planets they could make an effective demonstration by destroying… 

But only one had birthed the Voice of the Rebellion. 

Only one had been emboldened by the reappearance of their legendary queen, their beloved senator. 

And feigning respect while they aided and abetted terrorists… 

That was more than enough to justify destroying it while Amidala watched— and for a moment Ravous wanted nothing more than to _watch_ her watch, to see that defiant light leave her eyes, to watch her psyche collapse under the weight of the suffering she’d incurred… 

But as a threat? An interrogation tool?

Amidala had resisted thus far because she knew they’d destroy as many worlds as necessary to enforce order; the lives of the Profundity’s crew were nothing next to the population of an entire planet. 

And this was a woman who had already endured the loss of her husband, the _perceived_ loss of the institution she had devoted her life to, of dozens upon dozens of her rebel comrades, and _kept fighting._

A woman who’d been fully willing to give up her newborn children for her cause. 

Threatening her with further destruction might only strengthen her resolve. 

But this was Wilhuff Tarkin. The uptight old bastard probably couldn't get hard unless he'd recently ordered a mass execution… and he wasn’t _just_ asking her opinion. 

This was a _test._

 **“Naboo,”** she said, **“is the most immediately obvious choice. But it** **_is_ ** **located in the Outer rim, and less of an immediate security threat. Alderaan, however, harbors entirely too much traitorous sentiment for a Core World-- its destruction could make a powerful statement. Nar Shaddaa and Nal Hutta also come to mind; it is well past time we showed those overgrown slugs their place in the New Order.”**

The tiniest, driest smile curled Tarkin’s thin lips. 

“Very good, Lord Ravous.” He turned once more to admire the destruction below. “I will decide by 0600 hours. Try not to damage the prisoner too badly before then.” 

She swept off of the bridge without responding. She was _done_ with words— she needed **_action,_ **needed movement and direct, violent purpose—

She needed to karking _work this off._

So she tapped on her helmet-comm. 

**“Number One.”**

_“Lord Ravous.”_

**“Meet me in the training salle. And stim up. I don’t want you wearing down so quickly this time.”**

There was a moment of silence, and Ravous felt a wave of fury through their Bond before First Sister tamped it down. It resonated with her own, stoking the flames higher, hotter, such that it took supreme discipline not to splatter the walls with every ‘trooper that saluted her—

But no. 

They didn’t deserve that. 

Neither did First Sister, really. She was just really fun to fight. 

And she didn’t exactly have Obi-Wan Kenobi on-hand at the moment. 

_But I_ **_will._ **

_“I’ll see you there, My Lord.”_

Good. 

She took a deep breath. 

_Good._

  
  
  
  


*******

  
  
  
  


**Mos Eisley**

  
  
  
  
  


They were halfway to the docking bay when their luck ran out. 

A flash of white in the crowd, quick, booted footfalls, fear and annoyance rippling out from the crowd, pierced through by sharp, focused intent—

Luke and Ben turned to his aunt and uncle at the exact same time. 

“Remember your training, Luke.” 

He swallowed dryly, heart pounding. Nodded. 

“Aunt Beru?” he said. 

“Yes, dear?” 

“Y’might wanna get the slugthrower handy.” 

Han turned around. _“What?”_

And then the crowd parted. 

_“You there! Stop!”_

A dozen stormtroopers came running toward them, blasters primed—

“This way!” Ben ducked into an alley and beckoned them to follow. 

Han and Chewie didn’t need to be told twice (although Luke was fairly sure the Wookiee’s snuffling growl meant pretty much the same thing as the huttese swears Han was spitting out). 

Luke gave Owen and Beru a slight push with the Force, and followed as quickly as he could without passing them, hand on his ‘saber-pouch just in case—

A group of jawas dove out of their way, shaking their tiny fists and cursing—

“Left!” 

They turned the corner just as the first blaster bolts flashed down the alley. 

Luke felt two jawas die before he slammed his shields up tight. 

The alley became a loading bay for some business, empty except for trash and womp-rats that Beru scattered with a loud _crack_ of the slugthrower, and Ben led them into the back of the building the loading bay fed—

—through a meat-locker full of hanging Bantha steaks—

“He’s _fast_ for an old guy!” shouted Han. 

They burst into a dirty hallway, sprinted past spice-smoking Ithorians, and emerged into the sunlight of the bazaar. 

Where more stormtroopers immediately turned and spotted them. 

Han shot two of them through the helmet in a heartbeat. 

“My rates just went _way_ up, old man!” 

Vendors and shoppers dove out of the way, cussing in a dozen languages. 

Luke’s feet pounded the pavement, arms pumping, utility belt jostling on his waist—

—and for the first time in a while, he found himself thankful for Ben’s noon-day-sparring-sessions. 

He could do this for _hours._

But his aunt and uncle couldn’t. 

A hoarse cry broke his concentration— Owen’s voice, and he was _hurt_ —

Luke turned just in time to see his uncle fall to the dusty ground, Beru stopping next to him, raising the slugthrower at the oncoming ‘troopers—

_No!_

Ben was shouting at him, but he wasn’t listening because there wasn’t _time_ — 

“Stay back!” shouted Beru, “I’ll shoot!”

A dozen blasters trained on her, whining with power. 

“Auntie!” Luke sprinted to her side—

 **_Luke!_ ** Ben’s voice echoed loud in his mind. **_If you reveal your powers, they’ll call for reinforcements, and we’ll face something far worse than stormtroopers!_ **

_I know that!_

He _knew_ that, but—

But it wouldn’t take anything worse than a stormtrooper to _kill his aunt._

So Luke opened himself to the Force, flooding his awareness with the feelings of hundreds of sentients and the cold focus of the soldiers in front of him—

And he _shoved._

The ‘troopers flew back like ragdolls, some sprawling to the ground, others slamming into market booths, blaster firing randomly into the sky, the ground, the _people_ —

**_No!_ **

And for a moment, no one moved. Beru lowered the rifle and looked at him, eyes wide and jaw hanging slack, and Luke could feel the eyes of dozens more, could feel their shock, their recognition, their fear—

“Oh, _kark_ no!” said Han, and ran off. 

_Kriff._

“Auntie, help me—!” he hooked an arm under Owen’s, trying to pull him up. 

Beru fumbled with the slugthrower, with the weight of the rucksack on her back—

Luke scooped his uncle off the ground with the Force. 

_“Jedi!”_

One of the ‘troopers had gotten up, and was shouting into his wrist-comm—

 _“Repeat: there’s a **Jedi** in the marketplace! Request immediate backup! Request immed _—”

Beru put a slug through his visor.

But another one was already up and taking aim, so Luke grabbed the crook of her elbow and pulled her behind a freight-speeder, then pulled Owen toward them with the Force. The old farmer tried to run with them but staggered, limping—

_His ankle—!_

Plasma bolts streaked past, leaving glowing afterimages in Luke’s eyes. 

“Get on my back!” He shouted. 

“What?”

“Get on! It won’t slow me down that much, I’ve trained like this with—”

White armor flashed in the corner of his eye. 

“Quick!”

Owen stumbled forward, throwing his arms over Luke’s shoulder while Luke grabbed his legs and took off. 

Ben was waiting for them in another alleyway, the Force thrumming around him, and the instant they passed he raised his hand and _pulled._ Luke heard something heavy falling behind him, but didn’t waste time looking. They sprinted between dumpsters and through shops, Ben clearing their path with the Force.

Finally the rushed out into the open again, towards the entrance to Bay 94—

And the squadron of stormtroopers standing in front of it. 

The leader of whom had a blaster to the side of Han’s head. 

_“Halt!”_ he barked. _“You are under arrest for treason, conspiracy against the Empire, and assault on Imperial personnel! Drop your weapons and get on the ground with your hands on your heads or we_ **_will_ ** _open fire!”_

Owen slipped off Luke’s back, already raising his hands and kneeling down. Beru was still gripping the slugthrower, flushed and gasping for air, looking between the ‘troopers and Ben—

And then Ben spoke through the Bond, voice awash with calm determination. 

_Trust in the Force, Luke_ — _and follow my lead._

“Thank the stars you’ve caught him!” he said aloud. “That man is dangerous!” 

Han’s eyes almost bugged out of his head. _“What??”_

Luke felt Ben reach out through the Force, just as he did at the checkpoint. 

“We’re here to help. We’ll detain him while you double back for the insurgents.” 

Several of the ‘troopers faltered, lowering their blasters slightly…

 _“Silence, traitor!”_ The leader seized Han by the collar. _“Get on the ground!”_

Ben sighed. 

_“You have five seconds to comply!”_

Stepped forward. 

_“Five!”_

Reached out. 

_“Four!”_

Curled his fingers. 

The blaster jerked up and away from Han’s head, under the ‘trooper’s chin— and fired. 

He fell limp to the ground, smoke pouring from his helmet. 

_“Luke—_ ” said Ben.

Luke pushed. 

The rest of the squad fell back, knocking into each other and bouncing off the sides of buildings—

And with a sudden, oscillating hum, Obi-Wan Kenobi ignited his lightsaber. 

Luke drew his a second later, and sank into Soresu.

Plasma bolts filled the air. 

Not a single one hit its mark. 

Luke’s body moved almost on its own, following the Force like a fish in the current, deflecting shots into the ground, the walls, the sky, the ‘troopers—

And Ben fought beside him, ‘saber a constant whirling blur of light. 

Together they formed a bulwark, sheltering Owen and Beru as they slowly advanced, taking down the enemy one by one. 

Through the strobing haze of plasma, Luke saw Han deck a ‘trooper and snatch his blaster— but instead of helping, he turned and ran. 

**_Stop him,_ **said Ben. 

Kriffing—

Luke went one-handed, and with the other reached out and _grabbed._

Han tripped over nothing, and fell hard on the sandy ground, blaster discharging into a parked speeder. 

Ben stepped in front of Luke, ‘saber twirling, giving him cover to focus on the pilot— and focus he did. Luke settled the Force over him like a weighted blanket, pinning him gently in place—

“Luke!” 

Three ‘troopers remained. 

The two Jedi rushed forward, and in a heartbeat, it was over. 

Han scrambled to his feet and turned to look at them, eyes wide. 

“Go!” all four of them shouted. 

He did— Han in front, Luke close behind, Owen and Beru in the middle, and Ben guarding the rear, ‘saber still out. 

An old Corellian YT freighter was parked in the launch bay, dirty and carbon-scored. 

And surrounded by the blackened corpses of stormtroopers. 

The ventral cannons swung around to aim at them, and Luke ignited his saber on reflex— but then they lowered, and deactivated. 

“Chewie!” Han shouted. “Chewie, get’er fired up!” 

He sprinted up the open ramp, and Luke made to follow—

Blasterfire rained from above. 

A shot singed his shoulder and thigh before he got his ‘saber up to deflect, twirling it back and forth overhead—

_“Owen!”_

Luke’s heart skipped a beat. 

He’d never heard Beru _scream_ like that. 

She was stopping, falling to her knees over—

_No!_

Over Uncle Owen, who was sprawled on the ground, clutching a smoking wound in his side. 

Ben was behind them, running forward to get his ‘saber over them—

Too late. 

A spray of plasma bolts hit them both several times in the blink of an eye. 

The Force _screamed_ in Luke’s chest. 

“ **_NO!!”_ **

It was deafening to his own ears— and as the echoes faded, so did every other sound. 

The blaster-fire had stopped. 

Luke leapt off the ramp, ran towards his aunt and uncle—

Ben slammed into him halfway, arms wrapping around his waist. 

“Luke—” 

_“No!_ Let me go!” 

_“Luke!”_

The shout rang in his ears and his mind, and the Force pushed at him too, shoving him back toward the boarding ramp—

“Ben—” 

“They’re gone!” The old man looked up at him, eyes wide and pleading and so, so _sad_ — “You’ve done all you can for them.”

“But—” 

“We need to go,” he said softly. “ _Now.”_

And he was right, Luke _knew_ he was right— he could feel his accidental mind-trick wearing off, the ‘troopers regaining control of themselves… 

He looked over Ben’s shoulder, at the crumpled, smoking pile of cloaks and limbs that had been his family for nineteen years. He felt their Force signatures dwindling to nothing, too fast to help... 

_Too late._

_Too slow._

_Too afraid._

A sudden, painful void spread through his chest. 

_Aunt Beru, Uncle Owen…_

_Forgive me._

Then he turned and left them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry X(
> 
> Next: Pride Goeth  
> In which Luke tries to cope with his Aunt and Uncle's death, Ravous gets possessive, and the Empire makes a tactical error.  
> Featuring some old favorites ;)


	12. Pride Goeth

**DS-1 Orbital Battle Station**

**96:00 BBY**

  
  
  
  


Amidala’s head jerked up as Ravous entered. 

For the briefest moment her eyes were wide, vulnerable, _fearful,_ and something in Ravous rumbled with pleasure— but then her gaze hardened, and her expression went completely neutral. 

“Lord Ravous,” she rasped. “Are you alright? You left in quite a hurry.” 

Ravous couldn’t tell if she sincere or not. She bit back a snarl, resisted the urge to blast Amidala with lightning, and waved open her cuffs. 

Two stormtroopers stepped forward and seized her, pulling her off the rack and onto her feet. 

Ravous forced herself to be still, to observe, to assess. 

It was… _odd,_ to see the symptoms of starvation and dehydration on a face so much like her own. 

No. 

Not odd. 

_Familiar,_ in the worst way. 

Like looking in a mirror after one of Master’s _lessons._

**_Focus._ **

Amidala’s braid was coming undone, frizzing and tangled. Her eyes were dull, framed by almost bruised-looking flesh, her lips were chapped to cracking, and her face was sickly pale. Ravous suspected the stormtroopers holding her arms were the only thing keeping her upright…

Yet even now, her Force signature hummed with deep, focused determination. Even the grief and shock that radiated from her hadn’t broken her resolve. She felt…

Ravous clenched her jaw. 

She felt like a _Jedi._

**“Commander.”**

“Sir!” The Purge Trooper beside her snapped to attention. 

**“I require the prisoner to be lucid. Have your men fetch water and stimulants.”**

He turned his head and nodded to another, who marched quickly down the hall outside. 

“It...” Amidala’s throat bobbed, eyelids fluttering weakly, slurring her words— “S’too late. We have the plans. You should… should get off th’station while you can.” 

**“Oh?”** Ravous gripped the hilt of her ‘saber out of habit, its familiar shape and weight anchoring her. **“** **_Concerned_ ** **for my wellbeing, are you?”**

Amidala lifted her head ever-so-slightly, just enough to look Ravous in the eye as if there was no faceplate between them— 

“I know,” she said softly… and her neutral mask collapsed into sorrow. “Too late.” 

The words pierced Ravous’ chest like shrapnel, and her rage swelled to fill her chest, her veins, her mind— 

**“You know** **_nothing.”_ **Her body lurched forward of its own accord, ‘saber-hand reaching for the traitor’s neck—

She stopped herself. Clenched her hand into a fist, and forced it to her side. 

Stepped back. 

The soldier returned, a small metal case in his hands. This he opened, revealing a small aluminium water bottle, a colorless ration pack, and several hypos. 

**“Bring her to me when it’s done,”** said Ravous, and swept out of the cell to wait by the lift. 

Obi-Wan Kenobi. 

_Obi-Wan Kenobi._

It made no _karking sense._

How? How could a mother give her child to the man who’d killed his father? A man she must have _known_ would train Luke as a Jedi, would eventually send him off to die in futile struggle against the Empire… 

Ravous had _heard_ Amidala’s speeches, had studied them; all her narrow-minded talk of sentient rights, of ethical responsibility… was it just that? Talk? A noble facade, concealing her true ruthlessness? 

And if it was… _why?_ If power was her goal, she could have stayed in the Imperial Senate, or continued her political career on Naboo. 

No. 

She must honestly believe her own rhetoric— her decision to run and hide and _incite_ made no sense otherwise. Which meant she must have really believed she was somehow _protecting_ Luke by giving him to Kenobi—

...or. 

_Or_ she knew exactly how much danger she was putting Luke in, but somehow deemed it safer, or at least _better_ according to whatever flawed premise she was living by, than allowing him to be raised by the Master. Which… was _insanely_ irresponsible, but…

But of _course_ she believed it— she’d been a friend and ally of the Jedi since she was younger than Ravous was now, exposed to their dogmatic, narrow view of the Force, of themselves, of the Sith… 

Maul killing a Jedi in her palace probably didn’t help matters either. 

What would she think, Ravous wondered, if she knew of his ultimate fate? If she knew of Ravous’ own disdain for the blunt, feral instrument he’d become, of Ravous’ takeover of the Inquisitorius? 

Boots footfalls interrupted her musings. 

Several black-clad Purge Troopers came marching down the hall, leading the enlisted men who were hauling Amidala along. 

Ravous let them enter the turbolift first. Then she stepped in, and turned her back on her mother. 

But she could still feel her eyes. Could still feel the horror and grief coming off her like thick, choking smoke, impossible to ignore… 

So Ravous turned her focus inward, to her own smoldering core of fury. 

For what right did Amidala have to project feelings _now,_ nineteen years after abandoning her? Where was all this regret when she gave Ravous to terrorist sympathizers and Luke to a _karking Jedi?_

No. **_No._ **

She didn’t care about them— that much was blatantly obvious. It was all about _her_ — _her_ naive politics, _her_ suicidal cause, _her_ own personal tragedy. Not her husband, not her children, not the hundreds of people she’d sent to their deaths with her lofty rhetoric—

Ravous took a deep breath. 

It was like a bellows to the furnace in her chest.

And _still_ she felt Amidala’s pain. 

When the lift doors opened again, she couldn’t step out fast enough. 

As before, Tarkin was waiting for her. 

The wall-spanning viewscreen was off, dull and black. The officers and operators all stood at attention, buzzing with anxiety, apprehension, excitement… 

“Lord Ravous.” The Grand Moff gave her a respectful nod. “And the Voice of the Rebellion. It has been too long, my dear.” 

Were she in a better mood, Ravous would have smirked at the utter lack of feeling in his voice. As it was she just glared, silently willing him to get on with it. 

Amidala said nothing. 

_“General_ Amidala,” said Tarkin, “before whatever fate Lord Ravous has planned for you, in her capacity as your new legal owner, I would like to give you a proper demonstration of this battle station’s power. We have thus far only used a fraction of its full destructive capability, you understand. No star system will dare oppose the Emperor now.” 

“The more you abuse the people of the galaxy,” Amidala rasped, “the more fiercely they will resist. They will _always_ resist.” 

“Not without you to inspire them, my dear.” Tarkin stepped closer, raising one finger. “In a way, you have determined which planet will be destroyed first.” 

Ravous felt a surge of horror from her— suddenly snuffed out as she closed off her mind. Whether out of habit or awareness of Ravous’ proximity, or both… 

Tarkin turned toward the viewscreen— which switched on. 

Naboo hung peaceful and idyllic in the darkness before them. One of its moons could be seen behind it, partially eclipsed by the blue curve of the planet, and Ravous’ helmet display highlighted the tiny shapes of satellites in orbit, starships arriving and departing… 

Amidala’s impressive mental shielding couldn’t contain the wave of horrified fury that poured out of her as she realized what was about to happen. 

“Due to your reluctance to provide us with the location of your headquarters,” said Tarkin, turning to her once more, “I have decided to test this station’s destructive power on your home planet. Will you reconsider?” 

Had Amidala been Force-sensitive, her anger might well have killed the Grand Moff involuntarily. 

“Spare—” her voice was still parched, weak from days of deprivation, but there was steel in it yet. “Spare me the theatrics, Tarkin. It’s Palpatine’s homeworld as well. You won’t touch it.” 

She sounded confident of that. Convincing. But Ravous could sense the panic simmering just beneath the surface of her mind. 

The Grand Moff smiled a joyless smile. “The Emperor’s devotion to order and stability transcends such primitive sentiments as planetarism. He _has_ forbidden us from targeting a specific list of worlds, of course… but I’m afraid Naboo is not _on_ that list. Why do you suppose that might be, Your Highness?” 

Amidala’s hands shook in their cuffs. 

“You _can’t,”_ she said, voice thickening. “It’s a peaceful planet—”

“Its people, _your people,_ have harbored and enabled terrorists for almost twenty years.” 

“The civilians of the Empire don’t know that!” Her eyes were wide now, flicking between Tarkin and the planet— “If you destroy it, billions of otherwise loyal people will ask themselves how long it is before their planet is next, and they _will_ take action to prevent that!” 

“Then it will aid your cause to see it destroyed. Unless you’ve a better target in mind? A strictly _military_ target?” Tarkin loomed over her, gaunt face pinching in irritation— _“Name the system.”_

Amidala stood her ground. 

“I grow tired of asking— so this will be the last time. Where is the rebel headquarters?” 

She looked over his stiff shoulders at her homeworld, breath coming quick and shallow—

“Dantooine.” She hung her head, voice breaking. “They— they’re on Dantooine.” 

It sounded like truth. 

It _felt_ like truth in the Force. 

But many an Imperial officer had underestimated this woman, and Ravous had no desire to join them.

“There,” said Tarkin, “you see, Lord Ravous? She _can_ be reasonable.” 

Then he turned to Naval Chief Motti.

“You may fire when ready.” 

Amidala stiffened. 

Ravous breathed deep of her desperation and… 

Yes. 

_Hatred._

“You _bastard,”_ the traitor hissed. 

Tarkin smiled. “Dantooine is far too remote and sparsely populated to make an effective demonstration, but don’t worry— we will deal with your terrorist allies soon enough.” 

_“No!”_ Amidala spun, swinging her heavy cuffs into the unarmored throat of the nearest ‘trooper, and as he stumbled back she bent her legs and drove her shoulder into another, then leapt at Tarkin— only to freeze mid-stride, held in place by Ravous’ will, but still struggling. **_“No!!”_ **

A scream of pain echoed through the Force as ten thousand tons of Kyber had unimaginable energy forced through it—

Green light filled the viewscreen. 

Winked out. 

For a fleeting moment, Naboo appeared unaffected. 

Then a kilometers-wide fireball ignited on its surface, sending a searing shockwave out in all directions—

And the planet _cracked._

Massive fissures spread over its continents, splitting cities, boiling seas, spitting great gouts of magma and launching vast chunks of land into orbit—

And screams flooded Ravous' mind. 

  
  
  
  


*****

  
  
  


**Rebel Corvette _Steela_**

**Mid Rim**

  
  
  


Rex was smoothing a fresh bacta patch over Ahsoka’s left lek when _both_ lekku spasmed like injured snakes. He snatched his hands away, but her whole body had gone stiff, her face contorting in agony— 

_“Ahsoka!”_ He caught her by the shoulders and lowered her back onto the bunk as as she started _convulsing_ — “Feirfek!”

He knelt over the med kit, rifling through it for the painkillers, the sedatives—

What was kriffing _causing_ this? Not the scrapes— something from Felucia? Some pathogen? Kark, did they _have_ an antivenom? 

He snatched up a hypo, brought it to the side of her neck—

And her hand caught his wrist. 

“‘Soka?”

“Gnhh.” Her eyes were still scrunched shut, every line of her face tight, lekku still twitching— “Won’t help.” 

“What?” 

She braced her elbows on the bed and pushed herself up to half-sitting. “It’s the Force.” 

“What do you _mean,_ the Force? I haven’t seen you like this since—” 

_Mandalore,_ he didn’t have to say. _When the Order went out._

“I… I don’t know. I’ve never felt _anything_ like that before. It was like…” She shook her head and looked up— but not at him. Her gaze was far away, and wide with a horror any soldier would recognize. “Like billions of voices cried out in terror… and were suddenly silenced.” 

Oh. 

Haarchaak. 

Rex’s mouth was suddenly dry as Geonosis. “You don’t think…”

Her eyes focused, and met his. 

“They used it again,” she bit out. “Full power, this time." 

  
  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  


**Hutt Space**

  
  
  


‘In the middle of a raid’ was not the best time to get hit with a Disturbance. Especially if the relative nonviolence of said raid relied on its leader’s ability to be calm, confident, and intimidating. 

Not almost kriffing _faint_ because of something no one else present could feel. 

“Skrogging _sithspit!”_

Nandi Ohnaka leaned out of the way of a blaster bolt and tossed a stun grenade right into the scaly snout of the nearest Trandoshan. The others scrambled back, but not fast enough. Seven bodies hit the cargo bay floor slightly harder than they would’ve if they’d stayed still. 

Nandi stepped behind a storage crate just in time to avoid a deadly hail of plasma. 

“Sparks!” She shouted. “You good?” 

A turquoise hand darted out from behind another crate, suction-cup-tipped thumb up. 

“See if you can hack the atmo controls!” She barked in Sriluurian. “The rest of you, mask up!” 

With that underway, she holstered one blaster and tapped her wrist-comm. 

Several moment passed, punctuated by the pulse of weapons and the shouts of enraged/wounded slavers and pirates. 

_Please be sober please be sober please be sober_

Then a craggy, goggled face sprang out of the holo-emitter. 

_“My beloved niece!”_ Hondo grinned drunkenly. _“I was just telling my dear friend Rinetta all about your cunning capture of that Krawg corvette!”_

Sure he was. “Nice alliteration, Uncle.” 

_“You are too kind, my dear,”_ said Hondo, as if he had any idea what ‘alliteration’ meant, _“even if you do not call me nearly enough!”_

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “You know how it is— always a new prize on the horizon!”

 _“You hear that?”_ The old Weequay turned to someone off-camera. _“My niece is such a hard worker!”_

Cannonfire strafed the deck a meter from her hiding place. 

“Uncle,” she said calmly, “are you still in Canto Bight?” 

_“Ha! How could I leave? This place was practically made for me!”_

She didn’t even _want_ to know how many credits he’d burned through this time. 

“Could you check if our old friend Calrissian is in town?” she asked. “I’ve been dying to catch up with him.” 

_“Nan-di!”_ Hondo clutched his chest dramatically. _“You mean… you’ve only called because you_ **_need_ ** _something from me?”_

Something exploded in one of the adjoining passageways. 

“Yes, Uncle.” 

_“So_ **_mercenary_ ** _, my dear!”_ He grinned again. “ _I will be sure to give our favorite entrepreneur a big sloppy kiss on your behalf!”_

She couldn’t help but chuckle despite it all. “Don’t start anything you can’t finish, please.” 

_“No promises!”_

The holo winked out. 

Nandi let her head fall back against the crate, cold steel brushing her tendrils, and took a steadying breath. 

She hadn’t felt anything like that since… 

Karabast. 

Since the End. 

It had to be the Empire. 

Hopefully one of Lando’s ‘Sabacc buddies’ would—

**_Yo Queenie!_ ** Sparks shouted through their Bond. **_I’m in the system!_ **

Right. 

Nandi strapped on her respirator, and primed her blasters. 

_On my mark,_ she sent back— and to the rest, she shouted: 

“Let’s show these scaly karks who they’re messing with!” 

**_“Aye aye, Captain!”_ **

  
  
  
  
  


*****

  
  
  


**Barsoom**

**Wild Space**

  
  
  
  


“Nightmother.”

She groaned. 

A cool hand settled on her forehead. It did little to help the throbbing in her skull. 

“‘Mother?” 

Something was digging into her back. And her ass was wet, why…?

“Asajj?”

She opened her eyes. 

Merrin was kneeling over her, pale face creased with worry, while Little Cere huddled into her side, coppery hair rendered almost pink by the glow of the megafungi around them. 

Forest. They were in the forest, so that was probably a root half-stabbing into her back… and she was probably lying in a puddle. 

Outstanding. 

Asajj closed her eyes again, and took a deep breath. 

“Gramma Ven?” Cere’s voice was small, afraid, but she seemed otherwise fine… 

“I shielded her,” said Merrin. 

Ah. 

Good. 

Asajj reached for the Force, and flinched. 

Whatever had just happened was still rippling across the galaxy. Loudly. 

So she got to her feet the old-fashioned way. Laid a hand on Cere’s head. Caressed a pudgy cheek. 

“I’m alright, darling. Are you?”

The five-year-old hesitated, but then nodded. 

Asajj smiled, turned, and started walking. 

Tal Sojat was waiting for them at the entrance to the village, one hand braced on a limestone pillar, two more massaging their temples. 

“Nightmother.” Hand number four thumped their chest in greeting. 

“Guardian. You felt it as well?” 

The beads hanging from their tusks swayed as they nodded. “I _still_ feel it. What…?”

What indeed. 

She motioned for them to follow. 

She was no stranger to mass death… but no battle of the War had felt like _that._ Not even the _Purge_ had. So many lights snuffed out, so quickly… 

A supernova, maybe? 

Then why did it feel so _wrong?_

“Nightmother?” 

She looked up at the lanky Thark. The motion made her head throb anew. 

“It seems,” she mused, “that the Great Enemy has a new weapon.” 

Their eyes widened. Fear and confusion radiated through the Force. 

“What weapon could cause— _that?”_

“I don’t know. But I will soon. Merrin.”

“Yes, Mother?” 

“Run and fetch your harem, will you? I have need of their contacts.” 

The Nightsister rolled her eyes, but took her daughter’s hand and split off into the village.

Asajj walked with Sojat into the main cavern, and dropped herself onto her throne. Leaned her head back against the leather. Closed her eyes. 

Opened herself to the Force again. 

It hurt, like plunging into an icy lake... but she was no stranger to the depths.

Across decades and light-years, the ghosts of her Sisters called for blood once more.

Asajj sighed. 

_Karking_ **_Sith…_ **

_What have you done this time?_

  
  
  
  
  


*****

  
  
  
  
  


Luke blinked against the light shining into his eyes. 

What…?

He was lying down. 

Why was he lying down? 

Why did he feel so… cold? So empty? 

“Shhh. It’s alright, my boy.” 

“...Ben?”

The old man was sitting beside him— on the leather-upholstered seats of the Falcon’s lounge area. 

And his expression was pinched, his posture hunched—

“Ben?”

Luke tried to sit up, and was hit with a wave of dizziness. 

“Easy, Luke.”

Yeah. That was probably best. 

Something moved in the corner of his eye— Han, leaning casually in the round doorway, eyebrow raised. “You need some painkillers, kid?”

Ben laid a hand on Luke’s shoulder, and squeezed. “This pain is not physical, Captain.”

“Right.” Han crossed his arms uncomfortably. “Jedi magic.”

“S’called the Force,” said Luke. “And you _felt_ it back in Mos Eisley, I _used it_ on you.” 

“No, really?” Han feigned shock. “I _totally forgot.”_

“Captain,” said Ben, voice tight, “I understand your reservations, but we are suffering at the moment.”

Han frowned, but fell silent. 

Luke tried sitting up again, and managed to brace his arms on the Dejarik table and get his feet on the floor. 

His _heart_ hurt. It felt like— like when Owen and Beru— 

_Too late too slow too afraid_

—but _more._ So much more. 

“What happened?” he asked, not really wanting the answer. 

“I believe we just felt the reason for the mission your mother has entrusted us with.” 

_The survival of billions._

Kriffing hell. 

Ben laid a hand on the tabletop, palm up. 

Luke took that hand almost without thinking about it, already a little relieved. They used to do this all the time back home, before Luke had gotten the hang of blocking out stuff he didn’t want to sense. 

Ben smiled at him, and Luke felt his fondness through the bond, like warm, gentle waves… 

But that was it. 

Ben didn’t share calm like he usually did, didn’t project focus. 

Why? 

Luke reached through the Bond, nudging his teacher’s mind— and flinched. 

Sadness. So much _sadness,_ what…?

_Ben?_

He squeezed the old man’s hand, giving him the psychic equivalent of a hug. 

That misery… it was too deep and too cold to be new. 

It must have been from the War, and… what came after. 

_Ben… the Empire would have risen with or without Vader. It’s not your fault. None of this is your fault._

But the old Jedi just withdrew from their Bond. Closed off his mind. 

“Ben?”

“You’ve felt enough pain as it is, my boy.” He squeezed Luke’s hand. “Don’t go digging for more.” 

Luke looked down at the scuffed-up tabletop. 

_Too late._

_Too slow._

_Too afraid._

“That… _disturbance,”_ he said, “you think the Empire did that?” 

Ben sighed. Let go of Luke’s hand. Gathered his cloak around him. “I do. And I think they will do it again, if they are not stopped.” 

“Hold on a second,” said Han, who was still standing there for some reason, “I didn’t agree to any of this. You’ve already almost gotten me shot at _least_ twice— what exactly am I flying into, here?” 

“Just a meeting of old friends,” said Ben. “And I’d be happy to pay you more than agreed, for your troubles.” 

Han narrowed his eyes. Then he turned and walked off toward the cockpit, muttering something Luke couldn’t hear. 

He could still hear blasters, though. 

Could still smell burning flesh. 

Could still _see_ —

Ben laid a hand on his back. “Luke…”

“Release it to the Force,” he bit out. “Right.”

“I was going to tell you to breathe, actually. Reaching for the Force… may not help much, for the next few hours.” 

Oh. 

“Then...” It _hurt,_ deep in his chest. “Then what do I do?”

Some of that sadness showed on Ben’s face. A lot of it, actually— and Luke felt awful. Ben’d had that look in his eye for as long as he’d known them, but he’d never _realized_ it meant… 

“You must accept,” Ben sighed, “that you cannot change the past. Only the future. You must remember them for the people they were, not the circumstances of their deaths— and you must honor their memory. Do that, and their deaths will not be in vain.”

  
  
  
  
  


*******

  
  
  
  
  


**DS-1 Orbital Battle Station**

  
  
  
  
  


Amidala was silent all the way back to her cell. 

Physically, at least. Ravous didn’t reach for the Force. Not yet. Even without trying, she could still feel them. _All of them_ — four point five billion instants of terror and pain, each a single shard of ice in the blizzard that was still raging through the star system. 

And to think she’d thought it would _strengthen_ her somehow, feed her grasp on the Dark Side… 

**_My naive young apprentice._ **

She suppressed a shiver. Clenched her hands into fists. 

The ‘troopers locked Amidala back into her rack, snapping the cuffs shut with the press of a button. 

Amidala didn’t look at it. Or them. Just Ravous. Her gaze was unguarded. Almost _desperate._ Searching, though Ravous didn’t know what for. 

It was… uncomfortable. 

Ravous found herself thankful for her helmet— but she would _not_ be cowed. So she held Amidala’s gaze until the traitor sagged against the restraints, apparently only just now feeling the weight of what had happened. The older woman’s head slumped forward. Ravous couldn’t tell if she was unconscious or just exhausted, and she didn’t particularly care. 

As she walked out of the detention center again, her wrist-comm buzzed.

She’d set it to silent for the interrogation she thought would follow. 

**_Foolish girl._ **

She tapped it, and found a ping from Tarkin, requesting her presence on the bridge _again_ once… 

Once she was done interrogating the prisoner. 

She stopped mid-stride, jaw clenched almost painfully tight.

This partnership may have been intended as a learning experience for her, but she was **_not_ **his to order around. 

She commed him.

**“Grand Moff.”**

_“Ah, Lord Ravous. That was quicker than I expected.”_

**“It did not take long to see that the prisoner is too fragile for another session at the moment."**

_“You’ve learned nothing else of use, then?”_

Ravous took a deep breath through her nose. **“Not as of yet,”** she said, instead of the several dozen threats that came to mind. 

_“If she will not cooperate with questioning,”_ he said, _“then she is of more use to the Empire as an example than as a prisoner.”_

The Force _growled._

**_“No.”_ **

_“...excuse me?”_

Amidala was _hers._

Ravous _needed_ her. She knew where Luke was, she _had_ to— and even if she didn’t, she could still act as a lure for him.

**“She will cooperate. It will simply take time.”**

Tarkin said nothing for a moment, and there were too many other people aboard the station for Ravous to single out his presence, his mind… 

_“The Emperor has put great trust in you, Lord Ravous. Me, however, he trusts to be uncompromisingly thorough and efficient— and I have yet to see evidence that Amidala has cooperated at all.”_

**_“As I said. It falls under the purview of the Inquisitorius.”_ **

_“A few scattered Jedi can only do so much. The execution of the rebellion’s most notorious leader, however…”_

Ravous grit her teeth. Considered. Adjusted. **“That seems wasteful, Grand Moff. Millions of sentients listen to her words. If we can** **_choose_ ** **those words...”**

She could practically hear him narrowing his eyes. Assessing her. 

_“Very well, Lord Ravous. You are the ranking expert in…_ **_persuasion_ ** _, I suppose. You have my authorization to continue using the station’s detention center for this experiment of yours.”_

With that he ended the call. 

Ravous’ shoulders relaxed slightly. She hadn’t realized she was tensing them. 

That conversation shouldn’t have needed to happen. How _dare_ he presume to tell her what to do with her property?

No. 

It didn’t matter. Tarkin wasn’t disposable— Master had made that _very_ clear. Clashing with him would get her nowhere. Besides, the conversation was over. 

She would question Amidala again next cycle. Agitating her emotionally seemed to make it easier to find the right memories. It shouldn’t take long to extract the location of the rebel headquarters, and after that… 

_Luke._

_You don’t have to fight for a doomed cause, brother. There is so much more for you. You’ll see._ _I’ll show you._

_Perhaps, together..._

Her comm buzzed again. 

Ravous suppressed the surge of irritation and checked the display on her vambrace— 

Commander Shaw. 

Who she’d deployed to Tatooine. 

She tapped it on. 

**“Report, Commander.”**

_“My Lord. We located the droids in Mos Eisley Spaceport, but they escaped aboard a highly modified Corellian YT-model freighter— with the help of two Jedi.”_

**_“...Two?”_ **

_“Both human males, Sir. One young blond, one older_ _and_ _white-haired. Took out a full squad in less than a minute.”_

Ravous heart thumped hard and fast in her chest. 

...it _couldn’t_ be that simple. 

Could it? 

**“Sabers?”** she asked.

_“Sorry, Sir?”_

**“What color were their** **_lightsabers,_ ** **Commander?”**

_“Blue, Sir. Both of them.”_

Blue. 

Blue like Vader’s. 

Blue like _Kenobi’s._

Ravous marched out of the lift towards her personal quarters, barely noticing the violent intent pouring off her so strongly even Nulls scattered before her as she snarled: 

**“Tell. Me.** **_Everything.”_ **

  
  
  
  


*******

  
  
  
  
  


Luke sat in the copilot’s seat of the _Falcon,_ staring into the rushing glow of hyperspace. 

He could feel them moving. Too many Force signatures to count flashing in and out of his awareness faster than blinking… 

It was almost enough to distract him from— 

From _everything._

Something moved behind him, and he jolted, heart kicking into overdrive—

“Whoa!” Han held up his hands to show they were empty. “Easy there, kid.” 

Kriff. He should’ve felt him approaching. 

_Clumsy. Careless._

“Hey.” Luke’s voice sounded choked to his own ears. 

Han just… looked at him for a second, and Luke silently begged him not to bring it up—

But then he stepped past and sprawled into the pilot’s seat, completely at ease. 

Which made sense, this _was_ his ship— but he’d looked just at home in the cantina. 

Luke wondered if he always looked like he owned wherever he was. 

Han checked a few displays and flipped a few switches, then slouched back again. “First time offworld?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Lucky you.” Han didn’t look over. “If I could bottle that feeling, I wouldn’t need to take sketchy jobs from miniature Jedi.” 

“Hey!” Luke sat up, indignant. “I’m not _that—”_

Then he noticed the roguish smile on the spacer’s handsome face, and flushed. 

“Relax, prettyboy.” 

Aaand flushed some more. 

“You’ve seen Chewie. My sense of height is kinda skewed.” 

Oh. 

Yeah, that made sense. 

“How _did_ you end up flying with him? Wookiees aren’t that common in Hutt Space— at least, I’ve heard they’re not.” 

A dark look passed over Han’s face then, there one second and gone the next— and Luke didn’t need to feel the Force to read it. 

_They used to be._

“I saved his furry ass from the Imps,” said Han. 

A warbling howl echoed from somewhere else in the ship. 

The pilot grinned. “Sure, buddy.” 

Luke blinked. What?

“Wookiee hearing.” 

Ah. 

_Cool._

An awkward silence settled between them. Awkward to Luke, at least— Han didn’t strike him as the kind of person who _ever_ felt awkward. 

“Helluva lightshow, isn’t it?” 

“Huh?” He glanced over, and found the Han looking out at the swirl of hyperspace. 

Just like he’d been doing. 

“Oh. Yeah.” 

He saw the pilot’s head turn in the corner of his eye, and tried not to look as stiff as he felt. 

“So… what was that, earlier?” 

Luke glanced over. Han was watching him, but his gaze was relaxed. Like he didn’t particularly care if Luke answered or not. 

Which… made it easier to, somehow. 

“You mean the ‘Jedi magic?’”

The slightest smile pulled at the corner of Han’s lips. “I mean… I was a lot more skeptical before you body-slammed me with your mind.” 

Luke winced. “Sorry about that. I thought you were gonna leave without us.”

“Oh, I was.” 

And he _really_ should have been offended by that, but… that smile was just _distracting._

“That—” kriff, his mouth was dry. “That was probably smart of you.” 

“Gee, thanks.” 

Luke looked back out at hyperspace. Hyperspace didn’t make him feel nervous when he looked at it. 

“We felt a disturbance in the Force,” he said. “Something big that… shouldn’t have happened, I think? I’m not sure. Ben’s got more experience with this sorta thing.” 

“Right. Jedi magic. Gotcha.” 

“It’s not magic. The Force is an energy field that connects everything in the universe, living and dead. Me and Ben aren’t wizards, we’re just naturally sensitive to the Force, like… like how Chewie can hear frequencies we can’t.” 

Han blinked. “...wait, he can?” 

What? He just said— 

Oh. 

Amusement chimed softly in the Force. 

Luke crossed his arms. “You’re good at that.” 

“At what?”

“Sarcasm. If I couldn’t feel your emotions, you would have fooled me.” 

The pilot crossed his arms too, radiating skepticism. “What, so you’re psychic too?” 

“Not exactly? It’s not… let me finish explaining.”

“Alright.” 

“Me and Ben are naturally sensitive to the Force,” said Luke, “and we’ve trained that awareness the way you’ve trained yourself to fly this ship so well.”

Han arched a brow. 

Luke blushed. 

Again. 

Looked away. 

“When a lifeform dies, it becomes one with the Force, and… I can feel it. If I’m close.” 

He felt Han’s skepticism soften, giving way to sad sympathy. 

“...kriff, kid.” 

“To use a metaphor,” said Ben—

_“Kark!”_ Han almost jumped out of his seat. 

“My apologies,” said Ben, not the least bit apologetic. “I merely intended to aid Luke in his explanation.” 

“Right.” The pilot settled himself again, watching the old man like he might pounce. 

Ben smiled kindly. “To use a metaphor, a single death is like a drop of water joining a river. It causes tiny ripples that are only noticeable if you’re very close, or strongly connected the the person who has died. But the sudden deaths of a great many people…” His gaze went distant, looking past the light of hyperspace at something Luke hoped he’d never understand. “That can be felt from light-years away.” 

No one spoke for a moment. There was only the hum of the ships systems, the subtle vibrations, the occasional muffled whir… 

“Is that what you felt?” Han asked.

Ben crossed his arms, and stroked his beard.

“I’m afraid so.” 

“But what…” 

A light clicked on overhead, and a screen in the middle of the console glowed to life. 

“Chewie!” Han called. “Get up here, we’re—” 

Chewie was already there, bending down to duck into the cockpit. 

“Oh!” Luke got up as quickly as he could. “Sorry.”

The Wookiee let out a soft little growl, and took his seat. 

“Alright, everyone hold onto something.” Han reached up, flicking switches— “I’m about to drop us down to sub-light, and it can be tricky to completely dodge gravity wells when there’s more than two moons involved. Might get a _little_ bumpy…” 

He pulled a long, silver lever all the way down.

The swirling tunnel of light collapsed into distinct streaks— and then in the blink of an eye, into stars. 

And rocks. 

_Lots_ of rocks, flying straight at them— 

_“Or_ a meteor cloud!” Han’s hands sped up, flying over the console— “That happens too!” 

He grabbed two different control levers, pulled and pushed, and the view outside spun, a huge rock flying past them _way_ too close— but smaller ones must’ve struck the shields, because the ship shook around them. Luke grabbed the back of Chewie’s chair, trying to make sense of the chaos outside… 

Oh. 

The meteor cloud went on as far as Luke could see, rocks of all sizes tumbling through the void, slamming into each other and cracking into more pieces… and in the middle of it all floated the remains of a massive stone sphere, half of it completely shattered. 

“Veruna,” said Ben. 

The planet it had orbited was... 

Kriffing hell.

It was _all around them._

 _"Veruna?"_ Han steered them around another cluster of meteors. _“That's_ where you were headed?”

“It was," said Ben. "Before the Empire destroyed it." 

“This is it,” Luke murmured. “This is what we felt.”

"I'm afraid so." 

"That's not possible!" 

Then Chewie growled something that caught Han's attention— and when Han looked, he pointed up. 

“Yeah, you're right... why is _that_ moon still intact?” 

What?

Luke leaned forward to look up through the viewpane— and sure enough, there was a small grey sphere in the distance, untouched by whatever had shattered Naboo and Veruna, but... 

...but something was wrong. 

Very, very _wrong,_ making the hairs of his arms stand on end— 

A sudden surge of emotion rushed through the Bond— fear like Luke had _never_ felt from Ben, grief so much like his own but so much horribly _more,_ anger— 

And then it was gone, either tamped down or released to the Force, and Ben was gripping Luke’s shoulder, face grim. 

  
  


“That’s no moon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D  
> Featuring some cameos by characters who may or may not appear in parts 2 and 3 of this series (they will).  
> 10 points to whoever can catch all the little divergent-timeline implications I snuck into this chapter <3


	13. The General

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or: Han Solo and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Kriffing Confusing Day.

**86:00 BBY**

  
  
  
  


Amidala barely reacted, this time. Only her eyes moved, sliding open to fix on Ravous. The organic one looked clearer than it had the day before, and some of the color had returned to her cheeks. 

Ravous idly wondered what sedative the wardens had administered. If it matched the fluid inside the hypos in her own quarters. 

“Lord Ravous.” Amidala’s voice was less parched, but… flat. Guarded. “Are you alright?” 

_...what?_

Ravous stopped a saber’s length in front of her. The dimensions of the interrogation rack were such that she had to look slightly _up_ to meet Amidala’s gaze. 

She briefly considered rearranging those dimensions with telekinesis. 

The traitor blinked several times, seemingly adjusting to the light again. Swallowed. 

“I’ve seen how genocide can affect Force-sensitives,” she said plainly. “And that was just ten thousand deaths. I can’t imagine what four billion feel like.” 

_No,_ Ravous thought. _You_ **_really_ ** _can’t._

But she considered that before answering. Considered the intent of Amidala’s words, the emotion dammed up behind that Sabacc-face… 

**“Four billion,”** she said, **“six hundred and forty-two million, nine hundred seventy thousand, seven hundred and thirteen. Excluding however many were visiting the planet… and however many terrorists your people were harboring in secret.”**

A muscle twitched in Amidala’s jaw. The skin around her organic eye pinched slightly, and the faintest crease formed between her brows. 

It was gone again in the blink of an eye... but Ravous could feel the despair wafting off her like cold, bitter fog. 

**“Yes,”** Ravous pressed, **“I did find the…** **_feedback_ ** **of their deaths unpleasant. Fortunately Sith training eliminates weaknesses such as guilt or regret quite early on. Do you intend to continue feigning concern, or may we proceed?”**

Amidala shut her eye, and the mechanical iris of the camera in her other socket. Her nostrils flared with a deep breath. 

Ravous considered telling her that they’d swept Dantooine, that they’d found the long-abandoned base there… but something told her Amidala needed to be worn down a bit first. 

Or perhaps she just _felt like_ wearing her down. 

**“You were surprised, when I removed my helmet. I felt it. Your shock, your denial, your horror…”**

Again the crease between those brows, deeper this time— and when the traitor opened her eyes, tears shone in the organic one. 

**“No…”** said Ravous. **“You** **believed the propaganda?** ** _You?”_**

“Yes.” Amidala’s voice shook. “I did. I _had_ to— if I’d let myself accept that you were alive, that Palpatine had you, I…” she swallowed, eyelids fluttering. “I would have tried to save you. I wouldn’t have been able to stop myself, and I would have been killed or captured, and—” 

She cut herself off. Hung her head. 

“The Rebellion needed me.” 

The _Rebellion._ Ravous clenched her fists until they hurt. The Force burned through her, thirsty for blood, but… 

_Luke._

_I need her_ **_alive,_ ** _need her to_ **_talk—_ **

And for that to happen, Amidala would have to accept the reality of her situation. 

**“They still need you,”** said Ravous. **“Your voice, at least… but don’t worry. We’ll give it to them.”**

A tear fell onto the traitor’s shirt… but then she looked up, gaze suddenly focused. 

“Why are you so angry with me?”

Ravous blinked. **_“...what?”_ **

“It’s not just my work for the Alliance. You’ve asked more questions about our family—“

Ravous’ jaw clenched involuntarily.

“—than you have about the Rebellion. If you believe that Palpatine is a better parent than I ever could have been, then why do you resent me for sending you into the reach of his spy network? Would you have rather been raised a rebel?” 

For a long moment, Ravous could only stare at her. Her rage flared up, but sputtered like a flame in the wind. 

She didn’t— that _wasn’t—_

 **“You gave my brother to** **_Kenobi!”_ **

Amidala flinched, but held her gaze— so Ravous seized her with the Force, pressing her hard into the rack—

 **“You painted a** **_target_ ** **on his back! You sent him into exile when he could have been raised a** **_prince!”_ **

And despite the pressure crushing down on her, despite the mortal danger she _must have known_ she was in… Amidala’s gaze softened. The neutral mask ebbed away, her brows creasing together in an expression Ravous didn’t recognize. She could feel pain and sorrow, but… focused… _outward?_

**_“What?”_ **Ravous snapped. 

The traitor just looked at her for a moment. Her throat bobbed, her chapped lips parted—

“Is that how Palpatine treats you?” She asked. “Like a princess?” 

And Darth Ravous, who had commanded planetary invasions, slaughtered scores of rebels, and crushed Jedi Knights with her mind, _flinched._

Amidala seized that opening. 

“Is that what you want for Luke? For him to suffer the same—” 

**_“Enough!!”_** Electricity snapped between Ravous’ fingers. **“I am not a** ** _diplomat_** **to be** ** _negotiated with._** **You** ** _belong to me_** **now. There is no escape. There will be no rescue. Nothing you learn here will** ** _ever_** **reach your terrorist friends.”**

“Then why not answer my questions?” Amidala was still giving her that _look,_ why—? “I just want to understand.” 

Ravous squeezed tighter, compressing the traitor’s ribcage and forcing her to breath 

in little gasps. 

**_I_ ** _am the manipulator here,_ **_not you!_ **

**“Where is your headquarters?”**

“We’re decentralized by necessity. There is no central headquarters.” 

**“Your attack fleet had to launch from somewhere. Name the** —”

“How many people,” asked Amidala, “have seen your face?”

Ravous faltered. 

“Besides myself, I mean.” 

Blinked. 

_Only Imperials,_ her mind supplied unbidden. 

_Why?_

_Why_ **_did_ ** _I show—_

Something _shifted_ in the Force. 

Ravous paused. 

It was like… a faint ripple of warmth, among the cold echoes of Naboo’s destruction, yet tinged by distinct misery, distinct _anger…_

 _Too_ distinct to have come from a null. 

And she and First Sister were the only Force-sensitives aboard the station. 

“What is it?” 

Her gaze snapped back to Amidala, who was looking at her with undisguised —no, _feigned_ — concern. Fury coursed through her veins once more. 

“Are you al—” 

**_“Sleep,”_ **said Ravous. 

The traitor’s organic eye rolled back, and her head lolled to the side. 

As she swept out of the cell, Ravous activated her H.U.D. and accessed the security mainframe. 

“Recent entries,” she murmured into it. “External. Filters: exclude primary keyword: asteroid, meteor.” 

A single result appeared in glowing Aurebesh. 

**PROXIMITY ALERT**

**Unidentified craft detected in debris cloud**

**CLASS: Freighter, light**

...no.

It _couldn’t_ be. 

Could it? 

**MODEL: YT-1300, Corellian**

Ravous’ heart leapt. 

She tapped the commlink built into her right vambrace.

**“First Sister.”**

_“Lord Ravous.”_

**“Gear up. I have a surprise for you.”**

_“I am prepared.”_ She sounded bored, but that meant nothing— the woman could conceal her emotions like a true Sith. _“Is it a Jedi?”_

 **“Of** **_course_ ** **it’s—”** No. Softer. Encourage fondness. **“Yes. One is old and grey, but the** **_other—”_ **

Another alert came through— they’d caught the freighter in a tractor beam, and were pulling it into… 

**“Meet me in hangar bay E-86. Doubletime.”**

_“En route.”_

She marched quickly herself— out of the cell block and into the lift, mind racing… 

Tarkin would surely order a full search of the ship, but it would still be ‘troopers versus Jedi until she got there. 

And there was nothing she could do to make the lift go faster. 

_Curse_ this station for being so _karking massive._

  
  
  


*******

  
  
  


Luke crouched in the smuggling compartment, holding his breath as the footsteps passed above them. Even while he focused on hiding his Force-presence as best he could, he could still feel the lives inside that grim white armor… 

Just like he’d felt them in Mos Eisley— right before he’d snuffed them out. 

And it’d been so _easy._

Just a push with his mind, a few swings of his saber… 

For the first time, Luke was thankful for their expressionless helmets. If he’d had to look at their faces while he— while he _killed them,_ if he’d thought about the people inside the armor and where they came from and if they joined the Empire for the same reason he watched the double sunset back on—

Tears blurred the panels and pipes of the compartment. 

_Back on the farm._

How— why could he take life so easily, but not _save_ it? 

And if he couldn’t save two people ten feet away from him… what could he possibly do against this— _thing?_ The power to destroy a _planet_ … 

He flinched as a hand settled on his shoulder, big and callused and warm. 

Han. 

The smuggler ducked his head slightly to look Luke in the eye. His handsome face was relaxed, at ease, but Luke could feel the nervousness within, the compassion, the uncertainty as to how to help… 

Oh kriff, he was leaning in. 

Luke’s cheeks went hot, and he had to fight to keep his eyes from straying—

“Breathe,” Han whispered. “Remember what your Uncle said.” 

_...you cannot change the past. Only the future._

_Honor their memory._

...but how? 

Something _clunked_ , and Luke tensed. Han let go of his shoulder and pressed himself back against the wall of the compartment, aiming his blaster at the removable panel above— 

_Tap-tap tap-tap-tap tap_

—and flicked the safety back on, and holstered the weapon. 

Luke realized he’d been gripping his ‘saber-hilt through the pouch that hid it. Relaxed his hand. Slightly. 

Han reached up, and with a quick shove the panel _clicked_ and lifted free. Two large, leathery hands curled under its edge from above to slide it out of the way, and Chewbacca looked crouched over them, bowcaster at the ready.

“Never thought I’d be smugglin’ myself in these things,” Han muttered, climbing up and out. “This is ridiculous. Even if we could take off, we’d never get past the tractor beam.”

“Leave that to me.” Ben took Chewbacca’s hand, and let the Wookiee all but lift him out of his compartment. 

“I _knew_ you were gonna say that.”

“Did you now? Have you anticipated my plan, then?” 

Han frowned, glancing uneasily down the passageway, toward the boarding ramp. “I’m listening.” 

The old man smirked. Looked the smuggler up and down. “What do you suppose your measurements are, captain?” 

  
  


*****

  
  


Between Chewie’s howling and Han’s blasting, it was a wonder the whole station wasn’t after them already.

But Luke kept it to himself. He could feel Han’s nervousness, his fight and flight instincts clashing with each other… 

Kriff, how did ‘troopers see out of these things? He pulled the helmet off as soon as the blast door was closed. 

“We’ve found the computer outlet, Sir.” Threepio and Artoo stood on the far side of the room, next to an alcove full of consoles. 

“Plug in,” said Ben. “Locate the tractor beam controls.” 

Luke went to cross the room— and hesitated. One of the fallen stormtroopers lay before him, still smoking from the scorched holes in his armor— and with his helmet off, Luke could smell the burned plastoid, the charred meat—

His stomach lurched, and he looked away. Stepped around the body. Breathed out, and released his emotions to the Force. 

Artoo had brought schematics up on one of the wall screens, all glowing green lines against black. Luke spotted turbolifts, passageways, power couplings—

“The tractor beam is coupled to the main reactor in seven locations,” said Threepio. “A power loss at one of the terminals will allow the ship to leave.” 

Ben stroked his beard, looking at the screen… but also at something else. Something far away— and probably long ago. 

Luke glanced at one of the security monitors, and the hallways it displayed. No one seemed to be running yet… 

“I don’t think you boys can help with this,” said Ben. “I must go alone.” 

...what? 

Han muttered something, but Luke didn’t hear it— his eyes were on Ben, on the tired-but-determined look on his face, on the robes that would make him stick out like a sore thumb—

“I’m coming with you.” 

“Be patient, Luke.” Ben cast a glance at Artoo and Threepio. “Stay and watch over the droids.” 

“But he can—”

“They _must_ be delivered safely, or other worlds will suffer the same fate as Naboo.” 

Luke felt a chill seep past his armor, and suppressed a shiver. If he Listened, he could still ‘hear’ the silent echoes, of burning pain and fear and panic, and beyond that… 

Something was coming. 

Something that made the Force ripple around it, like a Krayt Dragon moving under the sand… 

“I feel it too,” said Ben, perfectly calm. “A mystery for _after_ we’ve escaped, I think.” 

Luke swallowed. His throat was dry. “Let me come with you. Please.” 

The old man looked at him for a moment, pale brows creased in thought… and a shadow passed behind his eyes. Then he laid a hand on Luke’s plastoid covered shoulder. 

“Most of winning is—”

“Picking the right battles,” Luke finished for him. “How is going _alone_ the right battle?” 

“I have ways of going unnoticed.” Ben nodded toward the smugglers and the droids. “They don’t. Not here, at least.” 

Kriff. 

He _couldn’t_ — if something happened—

“Uncle…” 

“Your mother needs you, Luke.” 

“His _mother?”_ Han hissed. 

But Ben was already stepping away, tapping the door controls with a knuckle— 

“Remember your training.” 

_Secrecy is safety. Use your powers only as a last resort._

Right. If he reached for the Force, whatever— _whoever_ that was might feel it, but—

But he wasn’t as good at mind tricks as Ben was. Together they might draw attention… but alone, Ben might just slip past the patrols. 

Might. 

Luke gripped his stolen blaster. Clenched his jaw. Nodded. 

Ben smiled sadly. 

“The Force will be with you,” he said. “Always.” 

And then he was gone, striding silently around the bend, and Luke had to force himself not to run after him. 

“And also with you,” he murmured. 

Chewbacca rumbled something. 

The door hissed shut again. 

“You said it, Chewie.” Han crossed his arms. “Where did you dig up that old fossil?”

_What?_

Ben risks his neck to get them out of here, and this— this scruffy-looking nerf herder has the gall to—? 

_No._

_Have to stay calm, have to stay_ **_focused,_ ** _can’t afford to argue right now_ — 

So he stood up straight, looked Han in his clever hazel eyes, and said: 

“That old fossil saved my life when I was a baby. He survived the Clone Wars and the fall of the Republic, he hid out in the desert for _nineteen years_ just to keep me safe, and now he’s risking his life for us. I’m stressed out too, here, but I’d appreciate it if you were a bit more polite.” 

Han blinked, surprised. Stared down at him. 

_Why does he have to be so_ **_tall_ **—

 _“Polite?”_ He stepped forward. “Y’mean like not tellin’ me you’re a _Jedi_ before you dragged me into this mess? Like getting me caught by the kriffing Empire? _That_ kind of polite?”

Luke flushed. “Well, I—” 

Kark, he was right. 

“D’you have anything helpful to say, or are you just gonna complain?” 

Han’s eyebrows shot up. “Listen, prettyboy—” 

Artoo let out a loud series of beeps. 

Luke cast a quick glance at Han’s handsome annoying frown, and turned toward the droids. “What is it?”

“I’m afraid I’m not quite sure, Sir.” Threepio straightened up. “He says _I found her_ and keeps repeating _she’s here.”_

“Who?” he asked. “Who’s here? _”_

Artoo bleeped. 

“General Amidala.” 

Luke’s heart lurched in his chest. 

“She’s _here?”_

“Amidala?” said Han. “Like _Padmé_ Amidala?” 

“Where? Where is she?” 

Artoo’s dome rotated, and so did his data probe—

“Sub-equatorial level five,” said Threepio. “Detention block AA-twenty-three.” 

Luke could _feel_ that that was close. “We have to save her!” 

“What?” Han strode over. “What are you talking about?” 

“She’s—” _my mom, I thought she was dead but she’s_ **_alive_ ** _and she’s_ **_so close_ **— “The droids belong to her, she’s the one in the message— we gotta help her!” 

“Are you kriffing kidding me? You’re mixed up with the _Rebellion_ too? Do you have a karking _death wish??”_

They didn’t have time to argue, they had to _find her_ — “Artoo, can you find a way into the detention block?” 

Han sat down in one of the control chairs. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

“We can’t leave her here!” 

“The old man said to wait here, and that’s what I’m gonna do.” 

“But he didn’t know she was _here—”_

“I don’t care!” 

“But they’ll _kill her!”_

“Better her than me!” 

He might as well have slapped Luke in the face. 

And then he spun his chair away and put his feet up on one of the consoles, as if they were cruising along in the _Falcon._

Luke just stood there for a moment, staring at the side of Han’s head. 

He _knew_ you weren’t supposed to trust the kind of people that hung out in Mos Eisley cantinas, but… 

But Han was their only way out of here. 

_And I can’t rescue mom alone._

Kriff. _Kriff._

_No. Breathe._ **_Focus._ ** _You’ve trained for this, too— take a step back, try to see it from their perspective…_

This really _wasn’t_ what Han had signed up for… and the smuggler hid it well, but he _was_ afraid. Luke could feel it, a buzzing anxiety that made him wonder how Han was keeping still. 

And he couldn’t do anything about that— Han had every reason to be anxious, to be afraid. He’d have to come at this from a different angle… 

_Better her than me_

_Ten thousand, all in advance_

_Like_ **_Padmé_ ** _Amidala?_

Oh.

“You’ve heard of her.” 

Han looked up at him, one eyebrow raised. “Uh, yeah? Who hasn’t?”

“Then… you know she’s a big deal in the Rebellion.” 

Crossed his arms. Again. 

“Wouldn’t the Rebellion _reward_ you for rescuing her?” Luke tried. 

“Kid,” Han laughed. “I don’t want kriff to do with the Rebellion. I’ve got a big enough target on my ass as it is!” 

“Exactly!” said Luke. “The Empire is _already_ after you— the Rebellion would reward you _and_ help you stay one step ahead. It took the Empire _twenty years_ to catch Amidala— they’re like… the galactic champions of outwitting the Empire! And… and I’m sure they need all the smugglers they can get!” 

Han’s expression made it very clear that he knew Luke pulled that out of his ass. 

And yet: 

“You better be right about this.” 

Luke did his best not to grin, to stay serious and look confident— “I am.” 

Han just stared at him for a beat, eyes narrowed. “You got a plan?” 

...kriff. 

_Alright._

He looked around, from Han to Chewie to Artoo to Threepio, over the consoles and monitors and the wrist-binders hanging on the wall—

...wait. 

“How…” This was going to sound awful. “How does the Empire treat Wookiees?” 

Han blinked. _“What?”_

“You said you saved Chewie— _Chewbacca_ from the Empire— what would’ve happened to him if you didn’t?” 

“Kid… have you been living under a _rock_ your whole life?”

“Pretty much, yeah.” 

Han stared at him for a moment, wide-eyed. Then he slumped back in his chair, and murmured: “We’re all gonna die.” 

“Can you answer my question?” 

A weight settled onto Luke’s shoulder. And around it. 

Chewbacca’s hand. 

The Wookiee eyed him for a moment, his furry face contorting into an expression Luke didn’t know how to read. He sensed anxiety, but no fear, just… frustration, and resolve—

Chewbacca looked at Threepio, and made a snarling, gargling sound. 

The droid plucked the cuffs off the wall, and handed them to Han— who gave Luke a surly glance before standing up. 

“Out of the way,” he said. 

Luke stepped aside, and watched in fascination as Chewbacca… let the pilot cuff him. 

_I guess that answers that question._

Had they used a plan like this before? 

...how close _were_ they, that he’d _let_ Han put ‘binders on him? 

Kriff, Luke _really_ didn’t know enough about Wookiees. 

Or the Empire.

Or the galaxy in general. 

Chewbacca growled quietly as he jerked his arms, testing the cuffs. Then he met Han’s eye, and nodded. 

“Alright,” said the smuggler. “Let’s get this over with.” 

“Oh.” Luke glanced between him, Chewie, and Chewie’s wrists—

“Those ‘binders aren’t made t’hold a Wookiee, kid. Might as well be cheap plastoid.” Han double-checked something on his blaster, and picked up his helmet. “We doin’ this or what?”

He was… _really_ good at dealing with his fear. 

Maybe Luke could learn that from him, if— _when_ they got out of here. 

“Yeah,” he blurted. “Artoo, Threepio, you got a route for us?” 

The astromech bleeped an affirmative, and a series of passageways and turbolifts were highlighted on-screen. Luke stepped closer to study them, their shapes and designations and how they fit together… 

“Threepio, can you stay on the comms? Guide us through it?”

“Of course, Master Luke.” 

Even having lived far from the slavery-hubs, the word felt wrong. “Just Luke, Threepio.”

“Of course, Sir.” 

Now wasn’t the time for this. 

He picked up his helmet of the chairs, and slid it on. Han stepped forward, and Chewbacca between them. 

Luke took a deep breath. 

They could do this. 

They had the route, they had a ship, Ben would deal with the tractor beam… 

And no alarm had been raised, so no one knew they were here— or at least where they were. 

...right? 

Right. 

He reached for the door controls. 

“Sir Luke,” said Threepio, “pardon me for the intrusion, but what if Artoo and I are discovered?” 

“Uh—” kriff. “Lock the door.” 

“And hope they don’t have blasters,” Han drawled. 

Luke adjusted his grip on his blaster and tapped the door open. 

“That isn’t very reassuring,” Threepio said quietly. 

  
  
  


*****

  
  
  


There were so _many_ of them. Stormtroopers marching in packs of ten, stiff-backed officers in high-collared grey, bipedal droids as tall as Chewie stalking the halls with whirring, thumping footsteps… 

And even while holding his entire self behind his shields, Luke could feel what had to be hundreds and hundreds more, all around, anger and determination and doubt and worry all pressing in on his mind from all sides… 

Was this what Coruscant felt like? 

He’d never been thankful for being short before— but if the armor he’d stolen had fit, he wouldn’t have been able to stash his ‘saber inside the shin-guard. It was uncomfortable, rubbing hard against muscle and bone with every step, and he was _sure_ it made the armor bulge out… but everyone they passed was too busy gawking at Chewbacca to care. 

Well, some of them were trying very hard _not_ to gawk at the Wookiee, but the effect was the same. 

He could feel little chimes of emotion from the masked ‘troopers, fear and disgust and then relief when they saw the cuffs. He could see the officers smirk and sneer in cruel pleasure. Some of them even nodded at Luke or Han as if to say _well done._

He wanted to uncuff the big guy, just to wipe the smug off their faces. 

He wanted to whip out his kriffing _lightsaber_ just to see them panic. 

_Emotion, yet peace._

_Have to rescue mom. Have to stay focused to rescue mom. Have to stay_ **_calm_ ** _to stay focused to rescue mom._

_Deep breaths._

_Ignorance, yet knowledge._

_At least I know what the Empire thinks of Wookiees, now. And of anybody else too far from human, probably._

_Kriff, that’s not helpful._

_Passion, yet serenity._

_I’ve trained for this. I can hide my presence. I can block their shots. I can trick doors into opening and minds into helping._

_I can_ **_do this._ **

_One foot in front of the other._

It was a good thing he’d memorized the route, though. Everything looked the same, all glossy black floor and dull grey walls and officers’ uniforms the same color as those walls… 

Luke pictured the schematics in his head. Right at the junction with the armored coolant pipes in the corner, left at the one with the two sets of blast doors, straight on ‘til… 

The turbolift bay. 

He let out a slow breath, and stopped to wait for one of them to open up. Another squad of ‘troopers marched past, keeping as far away from Chewie as they could. Gripped their blasters tighter. 

Had they fought Wookiees before? Or did the Empire just tell them to be afraid? 

A door hissed open. Luke glanced both ways, then stepped inside, stopping close to the wall to make room for Han and Chewie—

And an officer was trying to get in _with_ them. 

And he had _no idea_ if he could pull a mind trick without eye contact, much less without alerting the Presence—

“You sure you wanna do that, Sir?” 

Han. 

The officer stopped mid step, raising one eyebrow as he looked the ‘stormtrooper’ up and down. 

“Excuse me?” 

Han turned his helmet _just_ enough to make it clear he was glancing at Chewbacca, and said: “Let’s just say there used t’be a few more of us guarding this thing.”

And the officer… _paused_ for a second before he blinked, looked up at Chewie, and his eyes widened ever-so-slightly. 

“Pardon my saying so, but you’re probably better off catching the next one. Sir.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, still staring. Then he seemed to catch himself, schooled his expression, and stepped back. “Your caution does you credit, soldier. Carry on.”

A moment later the door hissed shut… and Luke stared at the smuggler. 

That second of hesitation, it almost seemed like… 

No. Couldn’t be. Han _felt_ like a normal person, and he hadn’t shown any other sign of—

The air _buzzed._

Which— he was wearing _armor_ , what—?

“Easy, kid.” Han had straightened up out of his usual easygoing slouch, to stand just as perfectly straight as a real stormtrooper. “It’s ‘sposed to do that.” 

“What is…?”

“Inertial dampeners. ‘Lifts on a station this big hafta move pretty fast t’get ya anywhere— fast enough that g-force becomes a problem.” 

Oh. 

That made sense. He’d read that starships had dampeners, but he never knew… 

_Kriff, how much do I not know?_

The buzzing… _eased,_ a bit, and a green light clicked on overhead—

_“Level 5,”_ a dry, core-accented voice said through some hidden speaker. _“Detention block AA-23.”_

Alright. 

Luke stood up a bit straighter, and held his blaster diagonally across his torso, like he’d seen the ‘troopers do—

The door slid open, revealing a large, with an island of consoles in the middle… 

Surrounded by stormtroopers in pitch black armor. 

All of whom immediately aimed their blasters at the ‘lift. 

_“No prisoner transfer on-file,”_ one of them barked, voice crackling through his helmet’s filters— **_“Weapons down, helmets off!”_ **

Luke’s heart slammed against his ribs. His hand twitched toward his belt— his _empty_ belt because his ‘saber was in his _karking shinguard_ — 

A mind trick— he could try a mind trick—

_Because that worked so well in Mos Eisley._

No. 

_“Weapons down,_ **_now!”_ **

He’d trained for this. 

_“Five!”_

A dozen enemies armed with blaster rifles, all in front of him—

_“Four!”_

—the door and shape of the ‘lift providing cover—

_“Three!”_

—one quick lunge between him and the closest ones—

_“Two!”_

_I am one with the Force and the Force is with me_ —

_“One!”_

Luke’s blaster clattered to the floor. 

His lightsaber shot up into his hand and ignited with a thrumming _hiss._

  
  
  
  
  


*******

  
  
  
  


Ravous stopped mid-stride. 

Was that—?

Yes— fear, anger, violent desperation— 

And the faint pulse of several tiny presences dissolving into the Force. 

_Familiar_ presences. 

Her purge troopers. 

An instant later, her helmet-comm pinged— the exact tone she’d assigned Commander Krant’s incoming messages. 

**ALERT BESH-ISK-SENTH**

_Combat. Jedi. Backup._

Krant, who she’d stationed in the detention block. 

_Kilometers_ away, past dozens if not hundreds of troops… 

...and she couldn’t even find it in herself to be _mad_ about it, just… _excited._

_Very crafty, brother._

Then came the two-toned alert the Commander’s armor was wired to send if his vitals cut out. 

She flexed her saber-hand. 

_I’ll have to teach you not to break my things, however._

_Who have you brought with you? Who have you brought into_ **_my_ ** _territory?_

“Sir?”

She blinked, and turned her attention back to the officer in front of her— a man several years older than her, spacer-pale, a lieutenant’s studs on the chest of his uniform—

And the three unconscious soldiers laid out on the floor beside him, stripped to their undergarments. 

“We found them inside one of the walls, Sir— a hidden compartment—” 

She was already turning away and activating her comm again, her command codes giving her direct access to the bridge PA system. 

**“Grand Moff."**

_“Lord Ravous.”_

**“We have intruders on-station, disguised as stormtroopers… and at least two of them are Jedi.”**

_“Is that what the commotion on sublevel five is about? I shall order the garrison to converge on them.”_

Ravous faltered. Blinked. Then she bit back a harsh, immediate refusal, fighting to keep rage and disgust from stealing her tongue—

Tarkin had served beside Jedi in the Clone Wars. 

He knew full well what Jedi could do to enlisted men, how many of his troops he’d be throwing away by giving such an order… 

He just didn’t _care._

She took a deep breath, in through her nose and out through her mouth. 

**“That won’t be necessary,”** she said tersely. **“We know their destination. There is no need to waste—“** _the lives of dozens of loyal soldiers you pompous twit—_ **“** — **manpower.”**

For a moment, no response came. 

Then: 

_“I suppose you_ **_are_ ** _the ranking expert on Jedi-hunting. What do you suggest?”_

Ravous glanced at the men on the floor, at the filthy scrap-heap of a freighter docked in front of her, the layout of the hangar around it… 

_They made it to the detention block._

Which mean they had access to a map of the station. And they’d gone undetected, so they were smart enough to take any number of alternate routes to get back here…

But the freighter was quite obviously a smuggler’s vessel— hidden compartments, thousand of credits worth of customization… 

No matter which route they took, they would try to come back for it. 

A smirk pulled at her lips. 

She didn’t need to do _anything._

 **“The emergency response teams need not be recalled,”** she said, **“but lock down all hangar bays…** **_except_ ** **for E-86.”**

  
  
  


*******

  
  
  


Luke gagged against the bile rising in his throat. 

His hand switched off his saber reflexively… but his eyes were stuck on the bodies around him— smoking stumps of severed limbs, blackened gashes in bone-white armor and the glimpses of ruined flesh inside and the _stench_ of it, melted plastoid and carbonized meat—

His stomach lurched again. He took a deep breath, in through his nose, out through his mouth… 

_They’re one with the Force, now._

It didn’t help… because he’d _felt_ them die, felt all the rage and fear and pain as he cut through them—

And it had been _so easy._

A soft howl interrupted his thoughts. 

Luke spun on his heels, saber flashing to life again—

Chewbacca. 

Just Chewbacca. Hands open and empty. Standing just beyond slashing range. 

Another howl, this time half-growl, but not in a way that sounded aggressive. 

_It’s over,_ maybe, or _you’re alright,_ or… 

“Kid! You gonna help out here, or just keep staring?” 

Han was standing in the island of consoles, rifle dangling in one hand while he looked over buttons and screens— “We gotta find out which cell she’s in.” 

Right. 

_Get in, get out, meditate once it’s done. This has purpose. This was_ — **_is_ ** **—** _necessary._

He switched off his ‘saber again, clipped it to his belt, started toward the consoles—

And something _tugged_ at him.

Just barely, gently, there and gone in a heartbeat, but… 

He looked over his shoulder towards it, down the raised hallway with all its locked doors… 

“Luke! We’re kinda on the clock here!” 

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Luke noticed that this was the first time Han had actually used his name. 

But the rest of his mind was open to the Force… and the Force said _come._

“I know where she is,” he said— and the Force was in his words, not a mind trick but a truth that grew stronger for the saying— “Guard the ‘lifts.” 

_“What?_ **_Kid_ ** **—”**

Chewbacca let out a purring bark. 

“Kriffing— alright, fine! Just be quick about it!” 

Luke was already walking. Up the steps and into the passageway, footsteps echoing off harsh grey walls… 

It wasn’t _quite_ like letting the Force guide his saber-swings… but it wasn’t that different, either. There was no sense of danger, but his body knew where to move, where to go, and he let it.

Right up to the door at the end of the hall. 

A _blast_ door, two panes of metal meeting in the middle, and probably another pair on the other side… 

And he didn’t recognize the door controls at _all._

Luke’s heart plunged into his stomach. 

_No. No no no no_ —

All that effort, all that _killing_ , just to be stopped by some kriffing _circuitry??_

Lifting rocks was one thing, but a sealed blast door? 

Wait. 

_Blast door._

Blast doors were built like airlocks— always sealed unless a specific power current was run through the control circuits. 

Luke palmed the wall just below the console. Closed his eyes. Reached out. 

Sure enough, there was only the faintest hum of electricity through the controls, just enough for them to actually function. 

So with a slow breath, he wrapped his intent around that trickle of power, and told it to _flow._

_Click._

**_SSS_ ** **_THUNK_ **

He opened his eyes. 

The door was open, giving him a clear line of sight to the machine built into the far wall, its needle-tipped arms and power cables and cuffs—

And the woman _in_ those cuffs. 

A sweat-stained tunic hung loosely off her slight frame, messily tucked into black trousers with a dozen pockets and built-in kneepads… and her shoes were missing. 

She raised her head as he stepped inside, frizzing grey-streaked hair and stress lines and one beautiful, tired eye, the other all lenses and metal… 

...with no expression. 

A very _similar_ non-expression to the one Ben put on when he wanted to avoid talking _or_ feeling about something. 

But he was too distracted by her face to really think about that. 

It was round like his, and their eyes were the same shape, their eyebrows too—

And those eyebrows were pinching together, her jaw tightening, her gaze hardening, why—?

Oh. 

Right. 

_Idiot._

He couldn’t get his helmet off fast enough, yanking at it, tossing it to the floor—

For a moment she kept glaring, eyes narrowing and flicking over his face… 

“Who…”

Her voice was parched and raspy, but still soft, and Luke could’ve sworn he _remembered_ it—

Then her good eye went wide and her face went slack with shock—

_“...Luke?”_ She whispered. 

He felt very awkward in the body, all of a sudden. A nervous smile pulled at his lips. His eyes felt hot. He wet his lips, forced his hands to be still at his sides… 

“Hi, mom.” 

Her brows pinched together again as if she were in _pain,_ her mouth opening and closing wordlessly, her eyes shining with unshed tears— and Luke lurched forward, hands reaching for the cuffs involuntarily. 

A heavy breath shuddered out of her. 

“Oh…” her voice was small, shaky— _“look_ at you…” 

“I—” words failed him. He tore his eyes away, forced himself to look at the cuffs and the horrible machine around them. 

_Emotion, yet peace._

_Passion, yet serenity._

He was getting her out of here. He was _getting her out of here,_ and nothing could stop him. 

He let that certainty fill him up, let it overflow into the Force, and _pushed_ it into the labyrinth of circuits before him—

And the cuffs snapped open. 

Luke caught a glimpse of chafed, reddened skin and dark purple bruises— but then his mother (his _mother!)_ was reaching up, caressing his face with shaking hands, tears flowing freely down her cheeks. Luke grasped her elbows reflexively, hoping to steady her. 

A hurt, desperate sound tore out of her throat, and she slumped forward into him, wrapping her arms around him with wiry strength. He hugged back, careful and scared to squeeze too tight, what with his armor and whatever the Imperials had done to her—

—she felt so _small_ —

But then pure, disbelieving joy washed over him, like hot tea and bonfires and warm blankets in the desert night, and it was all he could do to stay standing while he held her. 

_“Luke!”_

Both of them jolted. 

_“We’re gonna have company!”_

And Padmé— _Mom_ — pulled back, pulled _away,_ suddenly stiff—

“You shouldn’t be here,” she said. 

_What?_

“Neither should you! That’s why we’re here— to rescue you!” 

Her gaze flicked over his shoulder, to the open door and the hall beyond— “We?”

He grinned. “Me and Ben— Obi-Wan! And we have your droids!” 

Mom got even paler, her eyes even wide— “You— _brought them_ —” 

Swayed on her feet. 

Luke grabbed her elbows again, his forearms braced under hers to keep her steady. 

Blasterfire echoed down the passageway. 

_Kark._

“Mom?” He searched her eyes— _eye,_ but she seemed unfocused, far-away— and up close now, he could see how deep the bags under her eyes were, how chapped her lips were, the slight hollow of her cheeks—

_“Luke!!”_

_We have to get out of here._

“Okay, Mom, just—” he let go of her elbows and stepped in beside her, wrapping an arm around her waist. “Just hold onto me, alright?”

“No,” she mumbled slumping against him, “Luke you don’t _understand—”_

But the sound of blasterfire was louder, and when he turned he could see Han and Chewie running down the hallway toward them, chased by flashes of plasma— 

“Tell me on the way!” 

With that he walked out of the cell, as fast as he could while still holding her close. Ahead, Han and Chewie broke off their charge to dive into the small alcoves around each cell door. A plasma bolt streaked by Luke’s ear, close enough to feel the heat, and he lunged sideways, out of the open, dragging Mom with him to safety just in time to dodge three more bolts. 

“Exit strategy?” 

Huh? 

He turned to face her— and found her good eye bright and lucid again. 

“What?”

“What’s your exit strategy?”

“Oh!” He fumbled for the comm-tube whose twin he’d left in the hangar control room, brought it close to his mouth to be heard over the blaster fire— “Threepio!”

Nothing. 

_“Threepio!_ Are you there??” 

A plasma bolt seared through the air inches from his face. 

The droid’s tinny voice responded, but Luke couldn’t make out the words over the racket. 

“Threepio! We’ve been cut off, we need a way out!!” 

“Luke,” said his Mom, “did Obi-Wan show you how to use that?” 

What?

He met her gaze again— and found her looking tiredly at the ‘saber-hilt on his belt. 

The blasterfire was loud… but it would take a _lot_ more to drown out the soft song of the crystal inside. 

So he passed her the comm-tube, drew his weapon, and stepped out into the corridor. 

_I am one with the Force and the Force is with me I am one with the Force and the Force is with me_

It was easy, this time. The enemy were all in front of him, firing from the same angle into the same narrow passage. His body moved almost on its own, weaving his ‘saber in slight twists and lazy arcs, not swatting away the bolts so much as meeting them as they came, letting them bounce themselves back into the walkway, the ceiling, the walls—

He walked forward, past Han and Chewie, toward the troopers. Shots ricocheted back into helmets and breastplates and consoles, sending up sparks and smoke and screams.

 _There is no death, there is only the Force_ —

_“Fire in the hole!”_

Something arced through the air toward him, but there were too many bolts coming at him to stop his kata. It hit the walkway and skidded toward him—

Right into the side of his Mom’s boot. 

He had just enough time to recognize the shape of a thermal detonator before she kicked it off to the side and spun, shoving at him—

_“Down!”_

He hugged her again and spun away, deactivating his ‘saber on reflex and leaping for an alcove—

**_WHOOM_ **

The blast wave hit like a gust of desert wind. Luke stumbled into the wall, ears ringing, and glanced over his shoulder. 

Smoke poured out of a grate in the wall.

...the _big_ grate. 

Big enough for a human to fit through. 

Something jostled his belt. 

He looked down just in time to see his Mom yank the sidearm of his stolen armor free of its holster, duck out from the safety of the alcove, and shoot three ‘troopers center mass. 

Then she stepped back into cover, eyes darting everywhere—

“Luke, honey,” she said calmly, “how’s your TK?” 

Han’s head spun toward them so fast Luke got worried. 

_“Honey??”_

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. 

“My what?” 

A dozen blaster bolts flashed through the smoke, and they all pressed themselves flatter against the walls. 

“Telekinesis!” she shouted. “How’s your telekinesis?” 

“Wh— pretty good?!” He didn’t mean to make it sound so much like a question, but—

“Garbage chute!!” she barked, and fired several more shots down the hallway. 

Chewbacca roared in a way that sounded… _amused?_

Luke turned to the grate, and… 

Oh. 

It was _bent_ , away from the wall, and it was only _attached_ to the wall by four large rivets, at least one of which had been yanked slightly loose by the blast. 

No different than pulling open a busted speeder hood back at Tosche station. 

He reached out with the Force, felt the heat still vibrating through the grate, and willed it _off._

A earsplitting **_clang_ **echoed sharply through the passageway. 

“Han—” he started to shout— but the smuggler was already diving into the chute before the word could leave his mouth. 

Chewbacca gunned down another ‘trooper and howled something over his shoulder. 

“Luke!” A slender hand gripped his shoulder through the stolen armor, and his Mom’s mismatched eyes looked up at him, one bright, one dark—

“You’re doing great, sweetie.” She smiled a tight, stressed smile— “cover me?” 

Something warm and happy pulsed in his chest at the name, which— Aunt Beru had called him that, but this was his _Mom,_ and—

“Luke?” 

“Yeah!” He held his ‘saber away from her, and ignited the blade once again. “Ready?” 

She swallowed, still peering up into his face as if she were trying to memorize it—

Oh. Maybe she was. 

Then she nodded. 

Luke spun out onto the walkway, saber humming through the smoky air. He felt the air displaced by his mom dashing behind him, and saw her dive down the chute out of the corner of his eye. 

“Chewie!” 

The Wookiee kept shooting. 

“Chewie! We have to go!” 

A quick, urgent snarl, one hand waving dismissively. 

“Chewie, I’m the one with the _lightsaber—_ let me cover you!” 

The big guy stopped shooting, turned around, and surged up onto the walkway. 

Luke barely had time to move his saber out of the way before a huge, furry hand seized the collar of his armor and all but lifted him off his feet. 

He did manage to deactivate it before Chewie tossed him head-first down the garbage chute, though. 

His armor bounced and skidded off the narrow metal walls, and he twisted in midair, tucking his knees to his chest and wishing he’d kept the _karking helmet_ —

There was a brief instant of open air before he hit the water, and he used it to flip feet-down—

And immediately trip over something. And fall forward, banging his legs on something _else_ —

Gritty, oil-slick water splashed him in the face. He jerked back reflexively, stumbling to his feet again, right hand clamped tight around his saber. 

Then the _smell_ hit him, like a bunch of womp-rats had made a nest in a chop-shop, but… _wet._

He was standing knee-deep in the water, surrounded on all sides by mounds of metal scrap, worn-down piping and tubing and wall panels… 

_Mom_ — _where—?_

He found her across the room, struggling to wade through the junk, stumbling and swaying as she went. 

“Mom!” He hurried to her side. 

Water sloshed as Han spun toward them. _“Mom???”_

She started to wave him off, as if to say _I’m fine_ — but stopped halfway through the gesture, and turned to face him again—

Just as Chewbacca fell into the room with a _crash._

“Kriffing— _garbage chute,”_ Han grumbled, struggling to free himself from a thicket of wires. “What a wonderful idea! What an incredible _smell_ you’ve discovered!” 

“Hey!” Luke stepped between the smuggler and his mom. “Don’t talk to her like that!” 

She didn’t seem bothered by it. She didn’t even _look_ at Han, sloshing over to the door— a human-sized, rusty hatch lit by a dim red control pad. 

“Wait,” said Han, “stay back, let’s just blast our way out.” 

“Magnetically sealed,” she said, still not looking at him. 

He frowned. “Oh yeah? You been in a lotta Imperial garbage disposals?” 

She stopped mid-slosh. Turned to face him. Crossed her arms. 

“Have _you_ infiltrated many Imperial installations?” 

Han blinked, shifting his weight— “A few.” 

“Then you know that it’s standard protocol to magnetically seal any compartments containing potentially hazardous materials. If you fire off a bolt in here, it’ll either hit the garbage or one of us.” 

“I ‘spose you’ve got a better idea? It’s not gonna take’em long to figure out what happened to—”

Something moved beneath the water and scrap.

Something _big._

“—us.” 

Luke turned back and forth, trying to see down through the floating grit and oil—

—and something slithered past his leg. 

There was a click and an electric whine as his mom aimed her pistol at the water. 

“Everyone up on the garbage!” 

Han didn’t protest, this time. 

Luke stepped up onto what looked like an old air filtration unit, and stumbled forward when it lurched under him, onto a mess of piping that jostled and clanged.

“Luke,” his mom said calmly— “try and open the door. We’ll cover you.” 

_Do or do not,_ Ben’s voice intoned unhelpfully. _There is no try._

He glanced across the room, over the mounds of trash and the sloshing filth. If he kept close to the walls, he could make it over without—

A blastershot echoed loudly off the rusty walls, and a geyser of steam burst up from the water. 

“Ugh!” His mom stumbled further back on her trash-pile, shaking her head. “Karking _truth serum—”_

“What?” he took a step toward her, only stopping because of the water between them. “Are you okay?” 

“Luke.” She braced one hand on the wall, and looked him in the eye. “I appreciate your concern, but I’ve had a… very _rough_ few days, and I would very much like to leave now. Please get the door.” 

He ducked his head, cheeks warm. “Yes, ma’am.” 

Then he closed his eyes, and Felt. 

The hum wasn’t just around the door this time. It came from all directions, even up from below the swamp of trash… slightly muffled by the large, indistinct shape slinking through the water. 

He could hear his mom’s voice as she spoke into the commlink, impressively even, asking Threepio for help. He tried to focus past the sound, but—

A loud metallic groan drowned out his thoughts. 

He opened his eyes to find his mom swaying on her feet as she looked over her shoulder at the wall behind her. 

Which was _moving._

“Oh, _come on!”_ Han’s voice drew Luke’s gaze to where the smuggler was backing out of the corner he’d been in, away from another slowly approaching wall—

_A trash compactor._

_We’re locked in a kriffing trash compactor._

“Luke...” 

He leapt forward, over pipes and wires and sloshing water, and landed just in front of the door. Pressing both hands flat against it, he glanced at the control panel— and breathed a sigh of relief. There were only two buttons, both casting a dim red glow over the rusty metal. He jabbed his thumb into both of them, just in case, and was unsurprised when nothing happened—

“Kid!” 

“I’m working on it!” He opened his hand, holding it over the panel, feeling for the current of power beneath the hum of the shielding… 

Bits of scrap metal knocked against his shinguards as they were pushed toward the center of the room. He didn’t look, didn’t have _time_ to look— 

A pained yelp cut through his focus. 

He spun on his heels— and found his mom waist deep in broken electronics, struggling to free herself with one hand, pistol in the other.

_No!_

The mounds of garbage rolled and tumbled as the walls pushed them together, the water rising—

So Luke stepped away from the door, threw out his hands, and willed it to **_STOP._ **

A deep, grating shriek of metal-on-metal lashed at his ears— but the walls slowed to a crawl. 

He could feel the mechanisms behind them, humming power currents and relentless pressure— _too much_ pressure for him to halt all the way, and he had _no_ idea how to disable those mechanisms without even _seeing_ _them—_

**_K'THUNK._ **

Cool, fresh air washed over the back of his neck. Han, Chewie, and Mom all froze, heads snapping up, eyes looking past him. 

“Oh sure,” said Han. “Cuz _that’s_ not suspicious at all.” 

Luke wondered if he could pin the smuggler’s mouth shut with the Force. 

Which distracted him from holding the walls back. 

Jagged fragments of metal and plastoid clattered around his shins, then knees, then thighs, water splashing as the garbage closed around him—

Chewie warbled something, shoved what looked like an industrial motivator off his back, and sloshed toward the door. 

“What he said,” Mom muttered, and followed. 

Luke blinked. Did she understand—?

“Focus, Luke.” She gripped his arm, her expression pinched, tired— “We’re almost out of this.” 

He swallowed his questions. Nodded. Stepped out of her way. 

Han gave them both a suspicious look before following her out, mumbling under his breath. 

_“Padmé **kriffing** Amidala…”_

  
  
  
  
  
  


*******

  
  
  
  
  


With one last twist of a lever, a soft hum emanated from the power coupling, and Ben felt the flow of energy in the chamber lessen. He double-checked the narrow slat of a display just to make sure— and sure enough, the blue and red bars that had filled the meter had disappeared. 

A soft breeze ruffled his cloak, borne up from whatever systems filled the chasm below, and he shivered. 

And to think he’d once been so anxious to adjust to Tatooine’s climate. 

Footsteps. 

He froze, leaning up against the coupling so that he could relax his grip without falling. 

The modulated voices of helmeted ‘troopers rang loud in the cavernous quiet. 

_“Give me regular reports, please.”_

_“Yessir.”_

Several pairs of boots continued across the walkway. 

_“You know what’s going on?”_

_“Maybe it’s another drill.”_

A faint smirk pulled at his lips. 

So much for the efficiency of the Empire. Clone troopers would have already caught him and restored the controls to the correct settings. 

_“You seen that new BT-16?”_ asked one of the soldiers. 

_“Yeah, some of the other guys were telling me about that…”_

Ben gripped the coupling once more, and began to edge along the platform around it. Which was _really_ quite narrow. What kind of officer would sign off on such a death trap? 

He peeked around the edge of the coupling to find the troopers facing each other, blasters held casually in their gauntleted hands, peripherals limited by their helmets.

A flick of his fingers dislodged some panelling in the passage behind them. By the time they turned back around, he was already around the bend. 

Breathing a bit quickly. And his heart was thumping hard and fast in his chest. 

This sort of thing used to be _much_ easier. 

The last time he’d pulled a trick like that… 

No. 

_Later, you old fool._

He strode swiftly and quietly through the slate-grey halls, keeping a careful aegis of thought out to detect any approaching lifeforms… and finding so very few. 

The sheer size of the station seemed to be working in his favor. He could feel thousands upon thousands of crew, but they were spread out across kilometers; they clearly hadn’t expected infiltration to be an issue. 

So many little oversights… 

If this was representative of Imperial infrastructure as a whole, then perhaps Luke’s odds were better than he’d thought. 

Against mundane threats, at least… and the source of that cold, hungering fury was anything but. 

It moved through the station like some colossal predator through the deep ocean, announcing its presence via the disturbed waters around it… and yet something about it was… _restrained._ Held back. 

Hidden. 

And that was what truly slipped a frigid tendril of fear into his heart. 

Vader may have been terrifyingly, overwhelmingly powerful…. but all that power had been obvious. Barely-controlled. 

But if _this_ darksider was who he thought— no, who he _feared_ it was, he was strong enough to admit that… 

He slowed. Stopped. Ducked into an alcove. Took a deep, chest-expanding breath, and gathered the Force around him— not to shield himself, but to blur the edges of his being, the distinction between himself and the world around him. It wouldn’t fool the naked eye, but only the most well-attuned Force-sensitive would be able to detect his presence… and the the Dark Side tended to cloud such perceptions. 

Besides, if they ( _she,_ the Force whispered) focused on Luke, as he suspected they ( **_she_ **) would… 

Deep breaths. 

_All will be as the Force wills it…_ wasn’t particularly comforting, at the moment. 

So it was fortunate that he had long since planned this out. 

  
  
  
  
  


*******

  
  
  
  


Halfway to the hangar, the Presence disappeared. Luke got the vague impression of impossibly long tentacles slithering back into a tough, spiky shell… which given that he’d never actually seen a water-dwelling lifeform, was _probably_ a bad sign. 

It would’ve bothered him more if they weren’t running into stormtroopers around every other corner. 

_“It’s them!”_ Blasters snapped up, powerpacks whining— _“Blast’em_ —”

Luke tossed them back down the hallway. 

His Mom didn’t wait for them to hit the floor, already firing into the mess of white armor— and they were so tightly packed aim didn’t matter. Han and Chewie joined in, and the next troopers to come around the corner stopped rather than trying to stumble over the bodies, and took cover—

“Come on!” he shouted, ‘saber humming through the air. 

Once again, Chewie was the last to run, and they didn’t have time to argue. Luke dashed out in front of Han and his mom, leading them through the passages by memory. He could hear marching, but no shouts, no blasterfire—

Which… how many times had they been shot at? And not a single hit… 

“They’re herding us,” his mom panted. 

_“What?”_

“None of them are directly in our path.” Her face was pale, sweat-slick brow shining in the harsh light, and her movements were heavy. “Only off to the sides.”

But— this was the way to the hangar, why—? 

“What do we do?”

Her expression pinched, from pain or effort he couldn’t tell— “Keep going. Too many to—” —she gasped for air—”fight.” 

Kriff. _Kriff._

He gave her a gently push with the Force, and then another, every few yards down a long stretch of empty corridor, through intersections with all but one blast door sealed—

And _finally,_ the Falcon’s scuffed up hull came into view, and the stars behind it. 

And not a single stormtrooper in sight. 

_It can’t be that easy._

He staggered behind the cover of some piping, and switched off his ‘saber. 

His mom followed, lugging a blaster rifle she must’ve swiped off a dead trooper. Han was next, and then Chewie’s broad back thumped against the wall, his bowcaster aimed back the way they’d come. 

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” the smuggler muttered. 

Luke tried to catch his breath. Tried to relax his grip on his saber. Closed his eyes, opening his mind to the space in front of them… 

But the only presences were behind them, anxiety buried under well-practiced movements, determination— 

Then he felt it again. That _pull,_ just like in the cell block, just like… 

Just like the sunsets back on the farm. Just like the night sky. 

No— it wasn’t a pull— it was a _call,_ a sudden certainty that there was something out there he was meant to see, or to do, or… 

He wasn’t sure. 

But he had to go. 

He adjusted his grip on his ‘saber. Swallowed, throat dry. 

“Stay here,” he whispered. 

His mom’s head snapped toward him, her eyes wide, and for a second he thought she was going to argue— but then that neutral look was back, her jaw clenching as she nodded. 

For a moment he couldn’t look away. 

She looked so different, and yet so much like him. He’d thought about what it’d be like to meet his parents so many times, but… he’d never been able to really _picture_ it. 

And he’d definitely never imagined either of them to look like they’d been worked over by the Hutts. 

“Luke—” her voice cracked, and that snapped him out of it. 

He straightened his back. Took a deep breath. 

Then he turned, walked out into the hangar… and stopped. 

A stone’s throw away, standing between him and the Falcon’s open boarding ramp, was… 

He wasn't sure _what_ she was. 

Young and human and female, obviously— but that armor _definitely_ wasn’t standard issue, or even plastoid; all dark, sleek grey shining dully in the light of the hangar, and—

Oh. 

A lightsaber on her belt. 

His gaze snapped to her face, and a chill shot down his spine. 

Her eyes were _glowing,_ bright yellow ringed with bloody red... and _that,_ he knew of. _That_ Ben had told him about, in that terse, quiet voice that hinted at pain Luke hoped he'd never understand—

_The Dark Side warps those who lose themselves in it, inside and out._

A Sith. 

A Sith who was smiling, _grinning,_ lip-scar stretching as those horrible eyes drank in the sight of him—

—and that call swelled into a feeling of _rightness_ that hummed through him like soothing music. 

“Luke,” she said softly, _happily—_ “You look so much like father.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somebody get this kid some space cocoa. 
> 
> For those of you reading primarily for Barrissoka, don't worry! They are admittedly supporting characters here, but their next interaction is gonna b the emotional apex of this fic.  
> 10 points to whoever can guess how First Sister figures into what's about to go down ;* 
> 
> Also, given how divergent this timeline is, I'm thinking I might do some interludes detailing how various plotlines happened sans Vader, what Merrin & Asajj and others have been up to, etc. Like... I'm gonna need to re-watch all of Rebels to figure out how that's gonna go. No Vader, Maul running the Inquisitorius but *probably* on a much tighter leash (and probably super depressed). We'll see.


	14. Strike Me Down

Of all the things she could have felt in that moment, Ravous found herself… oddly _pleased_.

And not because her plan had worked. It barely _was_ a plan, really— far more passive than she’d have liked. 

No. 

Luke was more or less the same height as her. 

She’d had to discipline more than a few officers who equated stature to authority, and she knew Father had been a giant, physically as well as otherwise… but Luke was smaller, and softer. 

He _looked_ softer, at least —in the way he held himself, his bright eyes, the fullness of his sun-tanned cheeks— but even through his impressive shielding, she could feel fear and anger, raw and unrefined, but _there._

Even chained by years of Jedi training, he was _strong._

And yet he hadn’t ignited his ‘saber. He’d cut a swathe through her men, yet all she could see in his eyes now was… confusion? 

...oh. 

_You_ **_bastards._ **

“They never told you, did they?”

It came out a bit more _snarly_ than she’d intended. 

His brows furrowed further, and his gaze became piercing, searching—

_“Luke!”_

Ah. 

_There_ she was. 

Amidala came jogging out of the hallway, clearly limping, weighed down by the autorifle in her arms and the days of interrogation. 

Two more rebels followed shortly after— a human and a Wookiee, the former radiating nervous tension, almost skittish, the latter cautious but determined… 

Amidala staggered to a stop beside Luke and just slightly behind him, watching Ravous warily. 

“Mom—” he couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away either. “Who…?” 

_Don’t you see the resemblance?_ Ravous thought. 

But then she saw the traitor’s throat bob, saw pain pinch the skin around her eyes, saw her knuckles go white around her blaster… 

It took significant effort not to smirk. To keep her expression calm and open for Luke’s sake. 

_Go on._

_Tell him._

_Say my_ **_true_ ** _name._

Her mother’s shoulders slumped ever-so-slightly. Her eyes fluttered shut. 

“That,” she said, voice wavering, “is Darth Ravous.” 

She couldn’t keep the smirk off her face anymore. 

“Your sister.”

Luke’s blue eyes went wide, darted to Amidala, back to Ravous— 

And his oh-so-impressive shields failed him. 

Recognition rolled out of him like a blast wave, and that subtle pull between them coalesced, strengthened— 

His confusion poured into her mind, exhausted and panicked and buzzing with adrenaline. 

He had _no idea_ what was happening. Had they sent him into this _blind?_

Amidala laid a hand on Luke’s arm, gentle and comforting like she had _no right to be—_

“She _separated_ us, Luke.” Fire flooded Ravous veins, and she was pacing without conscious thought, hands curling into claws, prickling with static— “She _gave us away_ so she could avoid the Emperor’s attention, so she could lurk in the shadows with traitors and _terrorists._ ” 

Amidala stiffened. “I did it to protect _you_ , Leia, not my—” 

“That is **_not my name.”_ **

But the coward just couldn’t. Take. A hint. 

“I didn’t _want_ to send you away!” She lurched forward, blaster dangling idle in one hand, face contorted in pain— “I only ever wanted to keep you safe! Palpatine had just destroyed my life’s work _and_ the love of my life! I could barely care for _myself,_ let alone—”

“The _Emperor_ showed Father the _truth!”_ Ravous took a step forward before she could stop herself. “He tried to _save_ him from the Jedi— and your _friend_ **_murdered him!”_**

“Yes.” A tired voice echoed through the hangar. “I did.” 

Ravous snapped toward it.

The old man continued unphased, cloak swishing this way and that as he strolled— karking _strolled_ — towards them from Ravous’ right. 

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she wondered how he’d gotten past the sealed blast door behind him. 

The rest of her was rather preoccupied. 

Dusty, threadbare robes. 

A grey beard, unkempt and scraggly. 

Wizened features even more sun-beaten than Luke’s… 

But Ravous studied her enemies well. 

Not even twenty years of aging and hardship could disguise a face she’d long since memorized. 

Obi-Wan Kenobi. 

The betrayer.

The murderer.

The _kidnapper—_

“Your father lay before me,” he said, “wounded and unarmed, and for a moment I almost walked away. Almost left him to the will of the Force. But he had gone mad with fear and power. He had slaughtered the innocent, and would have done so again. I could not let him continue to terrorize the galaxy… and I could not bear to see him suffering, enslaved by Darth Sidious.” 

A red haze crept over Ravous’ vision. 

“So I killed him.” 

Electricity snapped between her fingers and her armor and the floor. 

Somewhere far away, metal groaned and rumbled— but she could barely hear it over the pounding of her heart, the blood rushing in her ears—

She felt her mother’s anxiety spike, saw her move in the corner of her eye—

“Obi-wan—!“

A saber-hilt glinted in the old man’s hand, and he spoke again, calm as still water:

“Run.”

A blue blade thrummed to life in his hands. 

Ravous _roared._

Lighting leapt from her fingers, filling the hangar with blinding light, overloading consoles and shattering supply crates in bursts of flame and molten shrapnel—

And Kenobi _caught it._

He stood fast, one hand raised and attracting the bolts like a lighting rod, but there was no conduction, no burn— just a _glow,_ growing the longer she focused her hatred—

So she stopped, lit her ‘saber, and leapt. 

The Jedi’s blade flashed up through the smoke to meet hers, warding the force of the blow ever-so-slightly right while he spun left and slashed at her neck—

_Too slow, old man!_

She batted it aside far more fiercely than was necessary but she didn’t _care_ — _twenty years_ this bastard had gone unpunished. 

**_No longer._ **

She didn’t let him attack again, slamming her ‘saber against his, slicing corners off his cloak as it swirled around him and carving furrows in the floor as she forced him back. For an instant his guard faltered, his frail body failing to keep up, and she swung her blade down with all her strength— 

And then the Force threw her sideways. 

She caught herself, of course, slowing her trajectory and flipping head-over-heels to land lightly on her feet among the smoking fragments, head swiveling to find the threat… 

Luke. Standing just in front of the freighter’s ramp, eyes wide and hand outstretched. 

And his fear and anger were louder now, no longer a pair of notes but a song all their own. 

Directed at _her._

Ravous smiled. 

How many years of Jedi training had he endured? And all it took was a brief taste of danger to—

“Luke—” Kenobi started—

 **_“Silence,_ ** _old man!”_ Ravous let her shields down, let the full weight of her power slam down on them— “You will **_not_ ** take him from me again!” 

And Kenobi froze up.

So did her mother, pure, primal horror echoing in the Force… 

_Interesting._

Luke glanced between them, hand flexing around his ‘saber-hilt. 

The other two rebels were gone. Ravous reached out and felt them aboard the ship, minds moving in sync. 

_Sloppy._

_Should have_ **_noticed—_ **

“Luke.” Amidala grabbed the pauldron of his stolen armor. “Luke. We need to go.” 

**_“No.”_ ** Ravous fought to keep herself still, to not walk toward her brother (her _brother!)_ — “No you don’t, Luke. You don’t have to run or hide _ever again_. Can’t you feel it? We were never meant to be apart.” 

The widening of his eyes and tensing of his body said that he did feel it, that he _knew…_ and yet he hesitated. 

“You’re the one I’ve been feeling,” he said. “You— you _kill_ people!” 

She didn’t laugh, but it was close. He just sounded so _indignant!_

“Yes,” she said. “I do… _without_ being chained by guilt or fear.” 

He paled. 

And then, once more, the old traitor tested fate. 

“She may be free from remorse, Luke— but she is a slave to the Emperor.” 

It was a good thing her ‘saber was made of Phrik. She might’ve involuntarily crushed it otherwise. 

“You cannot trust her.” 

**_“Don’t_ ** _tell him what to do!”_ Ravous shouted— and in the corner of her eye, Luke flinched. 

Kark. 

_Need to keep him here, need to make him_ **_listen—_ **

She turned back to him, softening her face, her voice… 

“Who did you lose in Mos Eisley, Luke?”

His expression crumpled. Kenobi may have taught him to shield his mind, but he wore his emotions on his sleeve. 

“Friends?” she pressed. “Relatives? Adoptive parents?”

Grief was a cloying, heavy thing to feel in the Force— but guilt, to Ravous, may as well have been the scent of a fresh meal, of opportunity, of _advantage—_

And Luke _reeked_ of it. 

“Jedi training is all well and good until you have a _real_ reason to be afraid, isn’t it? To be **_angry.”_ **

His eyes narrowed… and just like that, rage began to burn through the guilt. 

“... _you_ sent the soldiers.” 

This was too easy. 

“I did,” she said. “With orders to kill.” 

She felt the ghost of his anger, a wave of frenetic heat urging him to _do_ something—

He lit his ‘saber. 

Amidala flinched back, away from him. 

Ravous grinned.

_That’s it. Just a bit closer…_

The thrill of the hunt coursed through her. Even if it was to be more a recruitment than an actual fight… Luke was _powerful._ She could feel it. And he’d been trained by Kenobi, who had once held his own against Maul, Tyranus, Grievous, Ventress—

Cold shock dampened Luke’s rage. 

_What?_

His expression was frightened, but he also looked… almost _ill?_

Ah. 

At _himself._

But was it because of his Jedi delusions about anger, or because that anger had been directed at family? 

Ugh. Probably both. 

He was staring at her, still. Then his gaze snapped to Kenobi, then back to her… and he switched off his ‘saber. 

Stepped back. 

Up the ramp. 

**_“No!”_ **She lurched forward—

And pivoted just in time to swat away the supply crate Kenobi had launched at her head. 

And another.

And _another._ She slashed it apart and hurled the pieces back at him, but he spun out of the way, between her and Luke. 

Another roar built in her chest. Her feet wanted to step on his throat, her hands wanted to grab and _crush_ —

She gathered it all up deep within her, and let it ignite as she charged. 

In a single bound she was on him, saber flashing at his neck and sides and legs, and he slipped into that classic Soresu, never blocking, only parrying, turning the force of her strikes into his own momentum to dodge and whirl and jab—

And she could see Luke behind him the _entire time,_ slowly backing up the ramp even though she could _feel_ how badly he wanted to fight. 

The Force snarled a warning in her mind, and she spun low to avoid a jagged chunk of debris, slashing at Kenobi’s shins and forcing him into a blade-lock. She lashed out with one Beskar-clad leg, sweeping his foot out from under him— and he _let_ her, lifting off the ground and backflipping like he weighed nothing—

She had to leap back to keep her face, had to shut her eyes against the burst of sparks as his saber grazed her pauldron— and then he was back on his feet, back in that flamboyant kriffing stance—

With a clunk and a whirr, the freighter’s ramp began to lift. 

Ravous lashed out once more, only for Kenobi to mimic her last move, ducking and spinning into a searing whirlwind of plasma and tattered cloth. 

Trying to force her back. Trying to keep her from the brother he had **_stolen from her_ **—

She planted her feet and met him head-on, arms shuddering under his momentum, but she was younger, _stronger,_ and under all his Force-augmented _twirling,_ he was frail. 

Their blades hissed and sparked, heating the air between their faces. She bore down, years of fury and futile searching igniting into blistering rage and she could _see_ him feel it, could see the tightening of his features and the sweat plastering thin white hair to his sun-blasted brow—

With a grin, she took one hand off her saber, reached toward the freighter, and _gripped._

Just as it began to lift off, it shuddered and stopped, thrusters straining against the strength of her will. 

**_They will not steal him again._ **

She could feel Luke’s grief, guilt, fear, anger, and above all confusion—

**_I will free him from their lies._ **

**_I will show him his true potential_ **—

Kenobi slipped out of the blade-lock. 

**_BACK!!_ **

He tumbled away— and not a moment too soon. The ship’s thrusters flared, burning all moisture from the air and sending reverberations through the deck—

**_STOP._ **

But the tighter she held it, the greater the strain, matter and energy and weight and _power_ pressing against her mind and body. 

“I wonder…” 

She didn’t look at him, but let the pompous indifference in her voice feed her hatred, her _focus_ —

“How much do you truly take after your father, and how much is simply Palpatine’s design?” 

She shoved him back again, saw him stumble in the corner of her eye—

“He has more power over you than he ever did over Anakin...” 

Saw him find his footing and advance once more. 

“...and no need to hide it. No need, I think, to feign affection or compassion.” 

_I am not your father, child._

No. 

_You are_ **_nothing._ **

She grit her teeth—

**_Only through my training can you earn the right to a name_ **

Focused on the ship—

“But I do see Anakin’s fire in both of you.” 

**_“Shut up!!”_ **

The ship lurched forward, and her head began to throb. 

“Granted, I _have_ known Luke his entire life, but—” 

It was easier to let her hatred burst free than to hold it in. Once more lightning crackled through the air— but this time Kenobi raised his blade. 

Electricity met plasma with a grating screech, spitting sparks and arcing back across the floor—

And Kenobi advanced, one steady step at a time. 

This was Unduli all over again.

But this time, she was alone— and if she failed here Master would—

**_NO!_ **

Too late. 

A mere flicker of doubt was all it took. 

The ship tore itself free, and as she stumbled, mind stinging, it rocketed out of the hangar and into open space, shrinking to a pinprick in the blink of an eye. 

She whirled on Kenobi with a snarl— and found that he too was stumbling, robes smoking anew where lighting had slipped past his guard—

But his saber was raised, his presence in the Force was calm… and when their eyes met, he _karking smiled._

She was on him again in an instant, her blade a crimson blur as she hammered at his guard—

It only made him harder to hit. Every heavy blow just gave him momentum for another turn, another twirl, another dodge. She felt the Force swirling around him, making him lighter and quicker—

And she stopped. 

Let him gain some distance. 

Took a deep breath. 

She wasn’t stupid. Even burning with a lifetime of hatred, she wasn’t stupid. She _knew_ the game he was playing. She’d seen it before— the weary, veteran Jedi Master, nobly sacrificing themself so the children they’d dragged into their dogma could live to die another day… 

No. 

_This will_ **_not_ ** _end on your terms._

“Were you on Tatooine the entire time?” she asked. 

His only response was a raised eyebrow.

Disappointing. 

His reported propensity for inane banter would have made good fuel. 

“You haven’t been in contact with any other Jedi. I would have found it in their minds.”

His expression pinched ever-so-slightly. 

“And if you’d been helping the rebels, I would have found you years ago. So you’ve been isolated.” 

“You have _no_ idea,” he drawled. 

“And do _you_ have any idea of the state of the galaxy?” Ravous snapped. 

“I do like to meditate, yes.” 

“Oh? Then you must know all about Maul.”

 _There_ — a sharp note of grief, guilt, _rage—_

Gone again in a heartbeat. 

She wet her lips and began to pace, saber humming low and deadly— “You must know he never escaped my Master. You must know of all the Jedi-hunters he trained.”

For a long moment, Kenobi said nothing— and Ravous savored the litany of micro-expressions that flitted over his face.

“Trained.” The old man’s voice was tight. “No longer?” 

“No. He was only a placeholder, you see.” 

“For yourself?” 

She grinned. “I’m so sorry, _Master Jedi._ It seems I’ve stolen your vengeance from you.” 

He closed his eyes. Breathed deep. 

_“Barriss_ and I, that is.” 

His brows furrowed, regret leaking through his shields—

“She did _so_ enjoy taking him apart once I was done with him.” 

His eyes opened again, bright and focused despite it all—

“Is that what you intend for Luke?” 

Ravous’ jaw clenched involuntarily. 

“To make him like Barriss? Like yourself?” 

“You know _nothing of me,”_ she hissed. 

Kenobi advanced once more, step by steady step— “Would you see his compassion twisted into hatred? All that is good in him reforged into chains, to bind him to your Master?” 

He raised his blade.

“Will that make you feel less alone?” 

He might as well have slapped her in the face. 

Or stabbed her in the chest. 

All thought of drawing this out evaporated, burned away by volcanic rage. 

She poured all of it outwards in crackling, retina-searing arcs that he only barely caught on his blade, flashing where they struck plasma—

**_BANG_ **

Ravous flinched, hands flying up to the sudden sting across her cheek and coming away bloodied, red splotches she could barely see through the bright spots burned into her retinas—

And then she felt _his_ pain, sharp and overwhelming as he poured it into the Force. 

An agonized hiss reached her ears. 

Kenobi knelt on the cold durasteel floor, one hand clutching the charred, mutilated ruin of the other.

She’d overloaded the power cells. 

And he must have felt her triumph, for he met her gaze across the deck— but not before his eyes darted across what the shrapnel had done to her face. 

He smirked, sweat-slick face contorted in pain, a dozen red spots slowly staining his dusty robes. 

“Extra trophy for you, there,” he gasped. “Facial scars. Very intimidating.” 

She was already stalking toward him, saber gripped so tightly it hurt. 

His expression went solemn, his voice soft—

“He is the other half of you, Leia.” 

She raised her blade—

“You must protect him." 

And in the instant before she swung, the Force blazed with invisible light. 

  
  
  
  
  


Several million klicks away, Luke Skywalker cried out. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I subscribe to the HC that in canon, Obi-Wan probably went through some pretty intense depression off-screen between RotS and A New Hope. He was probably meditating and communicating with Qui-Gon most of the time, but still. Isolation after the kind of trauma he’d been through would drain the life out of anyone— even the ultimate Jedi.  
> But in this timeline, he’s had a close relationship with Luke for over ten years. Instead of self-isolating and wasting away, he’s been keeping his strength and actually taking care of himself in order to properly train the kid. He has more purpose and tangible hope than he did in canon, and his abilities haven’t atrophied nearly as much— they’ve even increased, in some areas.  
> Thus his ability to hold his own against the younger, more powerful Ravous, however briefly. 
> 
> Next: Angst-and-fluff family time :D


	15. Pleasant Suprises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short'un but a good'un <3

**84:00 BBY**

_**The Millennium Falcon** _

  
  
  


He was gone. 

The gentle, sad presence that’d been in the back of Luke’s mind since he was seven had evaporated like sweat under the suns— and in its place was a hollow ache. 

But… he’d _felt_ other people die, now. 

Too many people. 

And each time it felt like a candle snuffed out, a flame smothered… 

Not Ben. 

Maybe it was different for Jedi, but in the instant before the old man’s presence disappeared, Luke couldn’t _sworn_ he’d felt it get… brighter. Louder. 

_Stronger._

But it'd been hard to tell through all the secondhand anger coming off Ravous. 

_Darth_ Ravous. 

_Your sister._

And he couldn’t deny it. Not when he’d felt her emotions more clearly than he’d ever felt Ben’s.

_Kriffing hell._

A pained hiss cut through his thoughts, pulling his eyes across the lounge to his mom’s pinched expression as Chewbacca wiped some kind of sterile pad over the reddened skin of her wrist. 

A wave of… something washed over him then, something that made his chest tighten and his eyes prickle with tears. 

His _Mom._

_Alive._

This whole time, she’d been fighting. 

He glanced at her left eye. It shuttered like a camera when she blinked, grey metal over a dark, shiny lens, and what had to be a half-dozen small scars spread out from it, down over her cheek and up through what was left of her eyebrow. 

The Empire must’ve done that.

They’d hurt her, probably very nearly killed her, and he wasn’t there to stop them. To protect her. 

She flinched again, and Chewbacca softly warbled something. Then she smirked wryly and made a growling sort of whine in the back of her throat. 

Chewie gurgled back. 

Luke blinked. 

“You speak Shyriiwook?” asked Han, strolling into the room. 

“I do.” A fresh bandage around both wrists, she leaned back into the weathered upholstery. “Not very well… but no one has resisted Imperial oppression more fiercely than the Wookies. They are a vital part of the Alliance.” 

Chewie said something to that, and both sadness and anger flitted over her face. Then her eyes met Luke’s across the room, and softened again. 

She tried to get up— only to wince, and sit back again. 

Luke was on his feet in an instant, crossing the floor to sit beside her. “Hey, don’t… you need to rest, Mom.” 

A tired smile deepened her single set of crow’s feet, and she brought one hand to his cheek. 

“My baby boy…” her thumb brushed across his cheekbone. _“Look_ at you.” 

Kriff, he was tearing up again. 

“I…” he blinked. Swallowed. “I thought you were _dead._ But you’ve been helping the Rebellion, all this time…” 

“Kid…” Han shifted in the doorway. “She _is_ the Rebellion. People play her speeches from Kessel to Hoth.” 

“I am one part of a very large, diverse organization,” she said. “The Rebellion needs orators and negotiators just as much as it needs fighters, and…” her gaze flicked to the ‘saber on Luke’s belt. “...Jedi.” 

And Luke’s mind went right to Ben’s saber, lying on the cold deck of that hangar, or being manhandled by stormtroopers, or clipped to Ravous’ belt… 

He wasn’t sure how to feel about that last one. 

He just knew it hurt. 

“Oh, Luke…” his Mom brushed some hair out of his face, eyes sad. 

“What…” his voice came out weaker than intended. “What do I do now? Ben never— I never finished my training.“

She didn’t say anything for a moment. Just looked at him, as if searching for something… 

“Is that what you want? To continue training? To be Knighted?” 

He looked down at his hands. 

He’d… never really thought about that. Not since he first borrowed the family speeder, drove over to Ben’s hut, and asked the old man to train him. He hadn’t understood why Owen and Beru wouldn’t tell him much about the Jedi despite the fact that his _dad_ was one, so he’d asked Biggs and the other kids, and one thing had led to another. 

Then Ben started teaching him about the Force, and it was like discovering a limb he’d never used before, or a whole new part of his brain. It was _right._ And the more he felt of the the Force, the more he felt how much was _wrong,_ not just in the spaceports and the pleasure palaces, but out among the stars. He hadn’t gone a month in years without feeling the echo of something horrible… 

And all that time, he had a sister. 

A _Sith_ sister. 

...which could only mean she was trained by Palpatine. By _Sidious_ — a man who’d put his own planet through a brutal occupation just to go from Senator to Chancellor, who’d engineered a _galactic war_ just to seize more power… 

Who’d turned the brave, compassionate Anakin Skywalker into a creature of hatred and violence. 

And now Ravous, too. 

Except… that _couldn’t_ be the name Mom had given her. 

He met her eye again, opened his mouth to ask— and remembered _her_ question. 

“I…” he looked down again. “I… don’t think it’s about what I want. Every day the Empire goes unopposed…” 

Anakin, Owen, Beru, all the Jedi, all of _Naboo…_

“I think…” No. _Do or do not._ “I _know_ I have to do this.” 

Mom looked like she might cry again, but she felt… _proud._

It felt different than Ben’s pride. The warmth was there, but it wasn’t that familiar campfire warmth, warming his front while the night winds chilled his back. It was… both more and less, somehow? Almost as if it were blocked, or… 

Oh. 

She was holding back. 

And before he could ask why, she pulled her hands away from his face, and leaned back against the upholstery, putting distance between them. 

“Mom? What’s wrong?” 

She smiled. Miserably. 

“Luke…” her voice wavered. She closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. When she opened them again, it was with the same look she’d had on that horrible station— focused, determined— “I always wanted to be there for you. Knowing you were safe, far away from the risks I was taking…” she shook her head. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I _wasn’t_ there.” 

“You’re here _now.”_

“Yes.” The way she sat was almost… _stiff._ “And you’re a Jedi.” 

“...yeah?” 

Okay, now she looked confused— but it was there and gone in an instant. “I have already been instrumental to the Fall of one Jedi, Luke. To say nothing of the rules concerning Attachment.”

Oh. 

_Oh._

“Mom—” he reached out, laid a hand over hers— “Ben never… he didn’t hold me to the same rules as the old Order. Not all of them, anyway.” 

Her gaze went sharp again. Searching. 

“He didn’t separate me from Owen and Beru. I had a family, growing up.” _Had._ “He never asked me to let go of them, he just… helped me prepare to be _able_ to, I guess? He said…” kriff, how had he phrased it? “He said that since I’d already formed a strong Attachment to my Aunt and Uncle —since I didn’t start training until I was seven, almost eight— that severing that connection would do more harm than good. Instead of letting go, it was more about… accepting the inevitability of loss, I think he phrased it? And loving people for who they are, not just who they are to _me.”_

“Healthy attachment,” she said softly. 

“Exactly!”

For a startling, intense instant, she radiated a dozen emotions at once— too many and too quickly for Luke to make sense of them. 

Then she locked it all down again. 

“I can see why he might have chosen that path.” 

Luke… wasn’t sure what to do with that, but he didn’t have to figure it out, because the next thing she said was:

“Will you tell me more of… this aspect of your training?”

He thought on that for a minute. “Ben… it took a long time for him to open up about his past. Beyond the basics, I mean. I think he needed time to sort it all out, let alone figure out how to feel about it.”

“I imagine so.”

“He taught me all about the Jedi Code, and the rules the Order built around it. And then he told me that he’d technically broken them, by getting Attached to my father, to his clone commander…” Luke hesitated, glancing at her face and back down at his lap. “It always felt like he was leaving someone out, though.” 

“He probably was,” she said. “Several someones.” 

Luke waited for her to go on. 

“Later.”

He tried not to be too disappointed. “He said that those Attachments brought him great pain, but also that they were a light in the darkness during some of the worst battles of the War. That he loved them and wanted to mentor and protect them. To end the war so they could live their best lives… and that kept him going more than once.”

“Well,” Padme mused, “he was _exceptionally_ good at hiding it.” 

“Yeah. He said that too.” 

She huffed. 

Then she turned her hand over in his, and squeezed back. 

“I…” another deep breath. “I don’t know how much Obi-Wan… _Ben_ told you, or _how_ he told it, but my relationship with your father… to the best of my knowledge, it was his overwhelming need to protect me that Palpatine exploited in order to turn him. I do think that if it hadn’t been me, he would have used another relationship, another weak point, but… still. I don’t want to be someone Lei— Ravous can use to lure you in, or Sidious can use to turn you.” 

Luke wanted to say _you won’t be._ It was right there, on the tip of his tongue before he’d even thought about it.

Maybe that wasn’t a good thing. 

He’d left home to rescue her… and looking at her now, at the exhaustion and stress and _pain_ practically written all over her after just a few days with Ravous… 

Would he be able to stay away, if he knew it was a trap? 

“Luke.” She laid her other hand over his, and looked him dead in the eye. “I am prepared to die for the Rebellion. Even if it means I don’t live to see the Empire fall, even if all I can do is weaken it, I am prepared to die. If you’re going to join this fight… you don’t have to be okay with that— but you have to be _ready_ for it.” 

Luke’s heart lurched in his chest. 

“I…” kark. “I _just_ found you, Mom…”

“I know,” she whispered. Squeezed his hand again. “I know.” 

Aaand he was tearing up again. Great. 

He sniffled. 

“Oh…” 

She was tearing up too, though. So at least he wasn’t alone. 

And then she hugged him. Really _strongly_ for someone whose exhaustion he could feel. She was trembling. 

He wrapped his arms around her smaller frame and forced himself not to squeeze too tightly, wondering at how she could seem so strong and so fragile at the same time… 

She pressed her forehead into his shoulder, and whispered: 

“My baby.” 

A tear rolled down his face, into her grey-streaked hair. He rubbed his thumbs back and forth over her back, and felt wiry muscle, protruding ribs… 

“So this is touching, really…” Han slouched cockily on a chair across the lounge, as if he hadn’t been panicking ten minutes ago— “but _where_ exactly are we headed?” 

  
  
  


*******

  
  
  
  


As Ravous strode back onto the bridge, the Grand Moff’s eyes darted to the blue kyber crystal lazily orbiting her fingers. 

One of his eyebrows rose ever-so-slightly. 

“Lord Ravous. Quite a show you’ve put on.” 

She came to a stop beside him, clasped her hands behind her back, and faced the debris-cluttered starscape on the viewscreen. Drank in the primal wariness pouring off the command staff. **“It went as planned.”**

“Did it indeed?” Tarkin’s voice got even more sour, somehow. “Then you intended to let Amidala escape with a Jedi, when her knowledge of Imperial protocol will surely lead her to locate and destroy the tracking beacons we’ve placed on their ship?” 

**“Yes.”**

She felt the irritation slip through Tarkin’s mental shields. Smirked to herself. 

**“She knows to look for the beacons. She will not think to look for stowaways.”**

Tarkin’s boots squeaked as he turned toward her. “And why is that?” 

**“No one ever thinks to look for my favorite Inquisitor,”** she said. **“Not until it is far too late.”**

  
  
  
  


*******

  
  
  
  


This wasn’t the first time First Sister had felt more threatened by a spacecraft than by a Jedi. 

It just usually had more to do with the spacecraft’s weapons than fear of it _falling apart around her._ Maybe the vibrations weren’t so bad in the areas intended for passengers, but the maintenance passageways were another situation entirely. She could feel the ship rattling in her _teeth._

She’d known the Rebellion was pressed for materiel, but to have sent some cheapskate smuggler to rescue their vaunted ‘Voice’ was just… 

_Unimportant._

_You are not here to theorize._

_Center yourself._

Masking her presence came almost involuntarily, now— but there was Skywalker aboard. Even the smallest slip might compromise her. 

_I am not here. There is nothing to feel, nothing to see, nothing to smell, nothing to suspect. **I am not here.**_

The ship shuddered, and she tensed briefly, shoulder-guards clunking against the pipes and cables around her. 

She took a deep, slow breath. Moved her arms and legs, just to remind her hindbrain that they weren’t bound. That she wasn’t trapped. That this was a gift— another chance she didn't deserve, but _would_ make the most of. 

She’d been naive, before, to believe that she could simply _talk_ Ahsoka into abandoning her lost cause— and woefully ill-prepared to actually _fight_ her. Foolish to think she could rely on saber-skill alone in such a confrontation. Foolish enough to let _hope_ cloud her vision. 

No longer. 

Ten years, she’d been training for this. Ten years of sweat, blood, and horror. 

It hadn't broken her— and neither would this. 

In a matter of hours, she would have the location of the Rebel base… and soon after, she would have Ahsoka. 

She would _save_ her. 

And if Ahsoka’s hatred was the price of that... 

_—you'll **deserve** it— _

Well. She'd endured worse. 


	16. The Calm

**80:00 BBY**

**Mid Rim**

  
  
  


They’d never had caf back on the farm, so Luke wasn’t sure… but four cups _seemed_ like a lot. 

And then his mom took a few stim-tabs. 

And washed them down with another bitter-looking gulp, hand shaking all the while. 

And turned and marched toward the cockpit before Luke could say anything. 

Chewie, sitting across the Dejarik table from Threepio, made a noise that _might’ve_ been a chuckle. Luke didn’t stay to ask. 

His mom was already talking to Han when he caught up. 

“Easy?” said the smuggler. “You call that _easy?”_

“They’re _tracking us,_ Captain.” 

“Not this ship, _Your Majesty.”_

She stared at him for a second, then sighed. “At least Artoo is intact.” 

“Right, what’s so important about that ‘mech?” Han turned away from the controls and toward her, offended skepticism falling away in favor of the same focused, calculating look he’d worn in the Mos Eisley cantina. “What’s he carrying?” 

She glanced at Luke, who’d leaned up against the one bit of wall that wasn’t covered in buttons. Worried as he was, he didn’t want to crowd her. 

Then she took a deep breath and settled back in her seat, watching the whirling light of hyperspace outside. 

“The technical readouts of that battle-station. It has a hidden weakness, and those plans will tell us how to exploit it.”

And Luke felt just a little bit… _lighter,_ hearing that, but… 

“But it’s so heavily defended,” he said. “How could the Empire have left a weakness in something like that?” 

She glanced back at him, the faintest smirk on her lips. “When one’s underlings are too afraid to say no, or to act out in any way, many little weaknesses tend to be overlooked. Half the work of the Rebellion is finding them.” 

“Inspiring,” Han drawled. “Doesn’t answer the question.” 

Luke shot him a look. Padme didn’t look bothered in the slightest. 

“Not all acts of resistance are running in, guns blazing,” she said. “One of the chief engineers of that station wasn’t there by choice. So he toed the line for years, all to secretly place a weakness in it. Then he told us where to find the plans. Now we just have to get them to the Rebellion.” 

Han considered that for a beat, arms crossed. “Is _that_ what that mess at Scarif was about?” 

Her eyebrows rose. “Word of it has gotten out?” 

“Yeah, the Empire’s been covering it up pretty well, but it’s all over the pirate channels. Got a lot of people real excited, tell you that much.”

With a sigh, she sagged back against the seat. 

“Good,” she murmured. “It’s not over.” 

“It is for _me,_ sister. I’m not in this for your revolution. I’m in it—“ 

“For the money.” She was smirking again… but there was no joy in it. “I’m well aware, Captain Solo.” 

“Oh, so you’ve heard of me.” 

“I have. You come… highly _recommended_ by Enfys Nest.” 

_That_ shook him— his eyes widened ever-so-slightly before he locked it down behind his sabacc-face—

“We have _also_ done business with you, of course.” 

He blinked. _“Excuse_ me?” 

“The Alliance, that is. Through intermediaries. Smuggling rings and shell companies and the like are a good way to conceal our supply lines— and you’ve been very useful in that respect. Multiple times, in fact. What’s a few more trips?” 

“Yeah, well—“ he faltered for a second— “that was _before_ I made a pitstop in the Empire’s shiny new planet-killer! Every Star Destroyer in the kriffing galaxy is probably keeping an eye out for this ship!” 

“Oh, they definitely are.” _Her_ sabacc-face didn’t slip for a second. “You’ll need all the help you can get. We have that in common.” 

Han glanced at Luke with a dry smirk. “Nah, see, mama’s boy over here already tried that line.” 

_Tried?_

“And it worked,” said Luke. 

The smuggler ignored that. “Look, lady, unless you got thirty thousand ships stashed somewhere, your _help_ is just a bigger target on my back! You _just_ said they’re tracking us!”

“They are,” she said calmly. “Which is why I gave you the coordinates of an uninhabited rock instead of our base.” 

He stared at her for a beat. Then he bowed his head, and ran a hand over his face.

“Beacons?” 

“Yes. Standard Imperial protocol for vessels suspected of rebel affiliation.” 

“How many?” 

“On a vessel of this size? Anywhere between three and twelve.” 

Han sighed. Then he leaned back in his chair, took a deep breath, and shouted: 

_“Chewie!”_

Luke flinched at the sudden volume. 

A quiet howl echoed back from the common room. 

_“Break out the bug-zappers! We gotta do a sweep!”_

More Shyriiwook was followed by clunking. 

“Thank you,” said Padme. “Luke, would you mind helping so that one of them can stay in the cockpit?”

“It takes two to fly this thing,” said Han, eyeing her skeptically. 

“I can see that. Thankfully Artoo is an experienced co-pilot.” 

“That sassy little bucket? I don’t know…” 

“That sassy little bucket has flown through more dogfights than you have, Captain. He’s a veteran of the Clone Wars.” 

The smuggler’s gaze darted toward the common room, and back. “Yeah, well I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but this isn’t exactly a fighter.” 

“It won’t be anything but space-dust if we don’t deal with those trackers.” She turned her seat to look him dead in the eye. “Captain. It’s not my intention to undermine your authority. You know your ship and our trade much better than I ever will— but _I_ am the ranking expert on outmaneuvering the Empire, and billions of lives depend on us cooperating smoothly here. Rest assured that you will be fairly compensated for your aid upon our arrival to the Rebel base—” 

He opened his mouth to speak—

“—the coordinates of which I will supply _after_ I am confident that we are no longer being tracked.” 

Thus began a staring contest. 

Which was interrupted by Padme yawning. 

“Kriff,” she muttered. “Your ship, Captain.” 

Then she hauled herself out of the chair, and made her way back to the common room. 

Luke shot a look at Han, who just arched a brow at him. 

By the time he caught up to his mom, she was curled up on her side next to the dejarik table, out cold. 

  
  
  


*******

  
  
  


Muffled footsteps pulled First Sister from her meditation. 

Which was all the same— it hadn’t been going particularly well. She was far too excited. 

The footsteps paused, and her heart rate rose by several BPM. She’d made a slight gamble, accessing the maintenance tubes by way of a smuggling compartment— the compartments remained magnetically sealed until impressively well-hidden biometric sensors in their lids detected either the pilot or the wookie… but if they had enough experience with Force-users, they might know it wouldn’t be enough. Given that the freighter had departed from one of Tatooine’s crime-infested cesspits while evading an Imperial crackdown, it was likely that they’d chosen this particular pilot out of desperate convenience, rather than due to any long-standing arrangement— but her intel was limited. 

For now. 

What might have been the wookie’s voice filtered down into the tube. 

Then came the unmistakable sound of something electronic being fried… and a moment later, the footsteps continued. 

First Sister did not smile. Not outwardly. Neither did she move. 

All she did was breathe slowly in and out, and convince the world she wasn't there. 

  
  
  
  


***

  
  
  
  


**65:00 BBY**

  
  
  


When Amidala (as if running away from the Empire with _two karking Jedi_ wasn’t enough already!) said she’d punched in the numbers for a uninhabited rock, Han had sorta assumed she meant a really useless planet. 

Not an actual _rock._

He wasn’t nervous. He just had a healthy aversion to asteroid clouds. He’d had to cut the thrusters almost all the way down just to make it in without totaling the Falcon, and now… 

He glanced up through the viewpane. 

It’d been a while since he’d seen the stars… _interrupted_ like this. Work mostly kept him flying between smaller cities on less-crowded planets, without enough overhead traffic for it. Not here. This far from… whichever star they were orbiting, it was too dark to see most of the asteroids. Without checking the sensors, he only knew they were there because of the stars they blocked. 

Pretty damn good hiding spot, now that he thought about it. 

Not much of view, though. The rock they’d landed on was big enough that it just looked like a flat grey plain, pale against the black of space. 

Chewie’s voice crackled through the comm. Fourth tracker down, who knew how many to go. 

The sound of boots on the deck had him glancing back over his shoulder. 

“Get enough shuteye there, your highness?” 

“No.” Amidala stepped into the cockpit, looking like she’d gone six rounds with a jug of Rodian starshine and somehow _won._ “But I’m used to it.” 

“Right…” he sat back a bit, arms crossed. “Does the _whole_ Rebellion run on stims and grit?” 

She raised an eyebrow, cool as a cardshark. “Grit?” 

“Gumption. Nerve. Moxy. Take your pick.” 

The faintest little smirk came and went. She took the copilot’s seat. “We do our best with what we have.” 

“I’m sure you do, Ma’am.” 

If she was surprised at the sudden respect, she didn’t show it. Just eyed him evenly. Then she settled herself in a bit more, and looked out at the asteroids. “I apologize for my… demeanor, earlier. I don’t usually come on that strong to prospective allies.”

Han shrugged. “If I’d been through half of what I bet you did, I’d be a _lot_ pricklier. Water under the bridge.” 

That _did_ seem to catch her off-guard. It was subtle, but it was there. 

“It’s been a long time since I’ve heard that expression.” 

Ah.

He ignored the unspoken question. “What, not a lot of Naboo in your Rebellion?” 

“We’re spread out. I’m sure you know the feeling.” 

Right. Bloodstripe. “Yeah, guess I do.” 

They sat in silence for a while, watching the rocks between them and the stars. Chewie called in another tracker they’d fried. The asteroid turned enough that a bit of faint sunlight cast long, shifting shadows across its surface. 

Too damn quiet. 

Han glanced over. The lady had a damn good sabacc-face, but nobody could hide being _that_ kriffing tired. There was a sadness to her, too. She wasn’t _showing_ it, but… something about her just gave him the impression. No, something stronger than an impression. 

Finally he got tired of the silence. 

“Was that…” kriff, this was gonna come off rude— “really your daughter?”

She didn’t move. Didn’t even seem to breathe for a second. 

Then she clasped her hands in her lap. 

“I don’t know.” 

...what?

“You sounded pretty damn sure back on that station.” 

“Death Star.” 

“‘Scuse me?”

“They call it the Death Star.” 

Han blinked. Then he resisted the urge to spit. “'Course they do.”

“Their father,” said Amidala, “Luke and— and Leia’s. He was a Jedi Knight.”

Kriff, did the Force run in families? 

“He was a good man. Kind, compassionate, brave…” she took a slow, even breath. “He was devoted to preserving the peace and justice of the Republic, and Palpatine manipulated him into slaughtering innocent people.” 

Several things connected in Han’s head, just then. 

Karking hell. 

He _knew_ that particular piece of propaganda didn’t smell right. 

“Skywalker.” 

She closed her eyes. _“That_ is what the Emperor was capable of doing in secret, to a boy he could only talk to once every few weeks. He’s had complete access to Leia, complete _power_ over her, since she was four years old. I _want_ to believe that my daughter is still in there somewhere, but…” 

Han was suddenly very uncomfortable. 

Were the atmo processors karked up again? It felt colder in here. 

“Sorry,” he said. “Wasn’t my place to ask.” 

“No.” She gave him a sad smile. “It’s good to talk about these things. Otherwise they just… fester.” 

"Yeah. Maybe so." 

They didn’t talk again until all the trackers were fried. 

  
  
  
  


*******

  
  
  


**48:00 BBY**

  
  
  


A faint hiss broke the relative silence as Ravous removed her helm— and then a quiet clunk as she set it down on the counter before her. 

It wasn’t true silence, of course. She had declined Tarkin’s offer of a soundproofed stateroom in favor of standard officer’s quarters, and not just because it put her closer to the troops. It had been a long time since she spent more than a day or two planetside; the faint humming vibrations of atmospheric systems and engines and artigrav were… not quite a comfort, but their absence would have unsettled her. 

As if she weren’t unbalanced enough already. 

The counter’s edge groaned under her clenched hands. Her reflection warped ever-so-slightly as the mirror bent before her rage. 

She should have taken Kenobi alive. 

It would have been a greater test of skill than simply killing him, it would have pleased Master… and the old Jedi would have made _excellent_ bait for Luke. 

But no. 

She had allowed him to goad her into… what? Certainly not _killing_ him— there had been no cry of pain, no burning flesh, no sightless eyes staring up at her. 

He had simply _vanished._

She knew there was much Master had yet to teach her, much she was not yet ready to learn, but… well, wasn’t this something she _needed_ to know about, if she was going to encounter it in the enemy? 

The mere thought made her tense, made her brace for the lightning—

**_Foolish girl._ **

Master had reasons for everything. Reasons within reasons, plans within plans… 

This was another lesson of some kind. 

Hers was not to doubt; hers was to learn. 

She forced her hands to unclench from the edge of the counter. Reined in her frustration. 

Looked at her face in the mirror. 

Specifically the dry blood smeared across the left side of it. 

Ugh, she’d have to wipe down the inside of her helmet, too… 

Her slight grimace at the thought made the cut sting anew. 

It ran from just beside her nose to just short of her hairline, almost parallel to her cheekbone, dotted with dark clots in some places and still oozing bright red in others. The recycled air of the station burned the wound like salt. 

An inch or so higher and she’d have needed a new eye. 

_Like mother, like daughter._

Her reflection warped further. 

She’d never seen a saber explode like that before. 

Never _made_ one explode before. 

Had it been out of tune? Had the old man neglected to properly maintain it? 

Or was she just that powerful? 

Smiling hurt too. 

She forced her face into an impassive mask and stared into the bright yellow of her own eyes, the way they caught the austere, almost clinical light of her quarters. 

One day soon they would glow with a light all their own, just like Master’s. She could _feel_ it. 

**_Patience, my young apprentice._ **

She took a deep breath. 

What else? Master would be expecting an update soon, she needed to… 

_The ship._

Twice now she had attempted to hold a starship in place, and twice now she had failed. A blockade runner was one thing— they were mostly thrusters, and overpowered thrusters at that… but an antique, over-modded junkpile of a freighter? She should have been able to stop it. She would have broken its thrusters, but she didn’t know _how to_ without hurting Luke. 

And that was it. That was her misstep— if she’d known the make and model better, she could have simply interrupted a power coupling or disabled some circuitry, and all those illegal modifications wouldn’t have meant a thing. It would have been no more difficult than popping someone’s head or crushing their neck. 

But no. 

For lack of the necessary knowledge, she’d gone for brute force instead. 

_Unacceptable._

She was well-versed in the physiology of her enemies— there was no reason whatsoever she shouldn’t be an expert on the anatomy of their starships as well. 

Was this Master’s way of remedying her oversight? 

Her gaze returned to the cut on her cheek. 

She reached down and opened one of the drawers, retrieving the sterilizing spray. Clenched her jaw as it set the wound aflame. Then she picked up a bacta patch… and paused. 

Eyed her reflection again. 

_Extra trophy for you, there._

The image began to warp as the mirror bent. 

Kenobi’s crystal sat in her pocket, singing a quiet, mournful song… but of the saber that had encased it, only shrapnel remained. 

_Facial scars._

_Very intimidating._

The mirror cracked in a dozen places. 

She tossed the bacta patch aside, and turned away. 

Marched to the comm table. 

Knelt. 

Buttons clicked beneath her fingers. 

The lights dimmed. 

A hologram sprang from the display, looming over her—

_“Lord Ravous.”_

She bowed her head. “Master.” 

_“I have felt a ripple in the Force. An echo of change.”_

“And of victory, Master.” 

_“Yes… I have felt quite a lot from you as well.”_ Cold amusement suffused his words. _“Report.”_

“Obi-Wan Kenobi is no more. I defeated him in single combat.” 

For a moment, there was only the quiet hum of the ship’s systems. Ravous forced herself to breath slowly, calmly, cursing her inability to feel his moods through the comm—

_“Defeated?”_

Damn it. 

_“You did not slay him.”_

“No.” she swallowed dryly, pulse quickening— “I bested him, Master, destroyed his lightsaber— but before I could strike the killing blow, he… vanished.”

_“...vanished.”_

“He was there one moment and gone the next. My blade cut only cloth, and it felt as if… as if he had let down all his psychic shields and was summoning some great power. But then he was gone.” 

The Emperor hummed thoughtfully. _“Tell me of the duel.”_

She gathered her thoughts. Guarded them behind mazes of bramble and stone. 

“He martyred himself so that his allies could escape. I made a show of trying to stop them, and then finished him. He was formidable, but far past his prime. He relied more on telekinesis than on physical strength, even as we crossed blades. It wasn't enough to save him."

_“And these allies… they succeeded in extracting Amidala?”_

“Yes, my Master.” 

She took his silence as a prompt to continue. 

“I have relayed a description of their ship to the ISB, and to fleet command. It was piloted by a Wookie and a male human dressed in Corellian fashion. They…” something in her twisted, shied away. She ignored it. “There was another Jedi with them. Kenobi’s padawan, I believe. He was armed with a lightsaber, and had the complexion of a desert-dweller. I did not engage him directly, but I sensed great fear in him. Great confusion. Great anger. The ISB has his description as well.” 

_“Good…”_ he took the tone that meant he _wanted_ her to know he was plotting (as if he wasn’t _always_ plotting). _“Which agent did you choose to secret aboard their vessel?”_

“First Sister, Master.” 

He let out a joyless chuckle. _“Your fondness for that girl will be her downfall.”_

She tried not to bristle at that. She really did. “She is the most effective of the Inquisitors. The most skilled at infiltration. There—” _is no one better for this task._ “There was no better agent available to me at the time.” 

_“We shall see,”_ he mused. _“Look at me, child.”_

She did. 

_“You are injured.”_

“No, Master. Merely marked by the fruit of my own mistakes.” 

A smile contorted his wrinkled features. _“Experience is making you wise, Lord Ravous.”_

She bowed her head again. Let herself smile. Kept her voice even.“As you foresaw, Master.” 

But that smile soon faded. 

_“Something troubles you.”_

Kark. 

This, she hadn’t planned. “Yes, Master.” 

_“Speak.”_

She took a moment to organize her thoughts, aware that every second was one he could be devoting to far more important things, and burning with frustration at her own slowness. 

“I…” she clenched her hands into beskar-clad fists. “I recognized Amidala’s presence in the Force. I _remembered_ it, despite only having encountered her as a newborn… and yet I cannot remember the traitors she gave me to, or the four years I spent with them. Only my rescue.” 

_“Apprentice… those memories were dangerous to you.”_

...what? 

_“They clouded your judgement, and kept your from fully embracing your power… so I relieved you of them.”_

He… _took_ her memories?

“Forgive me, Master. I don’t understand.” 

When he spoke again, it was as if to a child— that same chiding, indulgent tone he used to use to explain her mistakes, her _kark-ups._

She despised it. 

_“The need for affection is a weakness,”_ he said. _“A natural weakness, of course, but a weakness all the same_ — _one which the Organas were all too eager to exploit, I’m afraid. Had First Sister not found you... in time, they may have twisted you into an enemy of the Empire. A_ **_rebel.”_ **

Oh. 

_Like Luke._

“Affection…” the word was an unfamiliar weight on her tongue. “But you have always taught me to embrace my passions, Master. That they give me strength.”

 _“Oh?”_ His voice was cold, now. Hard. _“Oh? Is it_ **_affection_ ** _you seek in your bed-warmers?”_

She stiffened. She— she knew _he_ knew about them (he knew _everything_ ) but he’d never actually mentioned them before, never even _alluded_ to them... 

And she’d let herself believe that meant he had no opinions on them. 

_Foolish._

“No, Master. Only pleasure. Only dominance.”

_“Which is why I permit you such indulgences.”_

Ah. 

A distraction, then. A luxury he would be well within his rights to take away if he saw fit. 

Or to use as another _teaching tool._

When had she started clenching her jaw again? 

_“Beware the undisciplined hearts of the rebels, Lord Ravous, and harden your own. The Empire needs you.”_

Only once she said “Yes, Master,” did he cut the hologram, bathing the room in darkness once more. 

Ravous let out a slow breath. Then she made to rise— and paused. 

She’d described Luke, but she hadn’t _identified_ him… and Master didn’t press her on it. 

Because he _didn’t know._

If he'd had any idea Luke existed, she'd have met him years ago. They might even have grown up together. 

(And Master would have made them fight for the right to become his Apprentice)

He would have at least told her about Luke at the same time he told her about Amidala. 

How could the Lord of the Sith not have noticed such a _bright_ presence? On the _same planet_ Anakin Skywalker came from? 

Luke was good at muting his presence in the Force, but not _that_ good. 

And yet his presence was as familiar to her as their mother’s was. Moreso, even… and the moment Luke recognized her, she could feel his emotions as if they were her own, almost like… 

_He is the other half of you, Leia._

Almost like a _Force-bond._

Several thousand light-years away, Luke Skywalker reinforced his mental shields without knowing why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just moving things into place ;) 
> 
> Ahsoka's in the next chapter!


	17. Old Soldiers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> S P A C E L E S B I A N S

**Yavin System**

**12:00 BBY**

  
  
  


_“Luke…”_

“Mmnhh?” 

“Luke, wake up.” 

Oh.

Mom’s voice. 

_Mom’s_ voice!

All his drowsiness was gone in an instant. His eyes snapped open to find her sitting on the edge of the cot, backlit by the open door. It looked like she’d re-braided her hair, but with only a sonic shower on board it was still frizzy. 

“Hey.” He sat up a bit, elbows braced on the cot, and tried not to feel awkward. “You sleep alright?”

“As well as possible. We’ll be dropping out of hyperspace in a few minutes. How are you with crowds?”

What? 

Luke tried to blink some of the sleep out of his eyes. “Um. Fine?”

“In terms of... sensitivity, I mean.”

Sense... oh. Right. 

He sat up the rest of the way and swung his legs off the cot to sit beside her. Thought for a moment. Then he shrugged. 

“If the other Rebels are anything like you, it’ll be a _lot_ better than Hutt territory.”

“We take all kinds,” she said, standing. “But yes. I suppose you will be finding out how people who _kill_ slavers feel in the Force. I just wanted to give you fair warning— the base will be very busy, and you may be unfamiliar with some of the species that are common in the Rebellion.” 

“Like Wookiees?”

“Among others.” She took a step toward the door, and paused. “Come to the cockpit when you’re ready. It’s quite a view.”

It was.

The rushing blue of hyperspace gave way to glowing red-orange, and Luke’s heart leapt in his chest— he’d _heard_ about gas giants, read about them, but this was… _beautiful,_ in a way that made him feel very small.

As the flew closer, he could see stripes of darker gas curving across it, spiraling together around a single point of darkness. Every so often there were little flashes around that center, like sparking circuitry. 

“Yavin Prime,” said his mom. “Two hundred thousand kilometers across, twenty-six moons…” 

She glanced over at him— and whatever she saw in his expression put a smile on her face. 

“That where we’re headed?” asked Han. “One of the moons?” 

“Yes. That one there— see it?" 

She braced a hand on the back of his seat and leaned forward to point. Luke had to squint to see anything next to the glow of the planet, but after a moment he could make out a tiny ball of green, blue, and turquoise, wrapped in swirls of white cloud… 

“You gonna give me landing coordinates, or...?" 

“Just make orbit, Captain.” She started fiddling with the long-range comms. Luke couldn’t see much around her back, but it looked like… some sort of repeating ping? 

Soon the moon grew to fill the bottom of the viewpane, and Luke could see the grey-brown ridges of mountains poking out of the green, little blue lines snaking down from them into the larger splotches… 

Oh. 

_Oceans._

_Holy kriff._

A soft chime filled the cockpit, and a light started blinking on the console. Luke heard the _click_ of a switch flipping, and—

_“This is Fulcrum.”_

The voice was heavily vocoded, completely masking gender, species, attitude… 

But Luke nearly slumped against the back of Chewie’s seat from the secondhand relief pouring off his mom. 

“Good to hear your voice, Fulcrum. Ident thresh-yirt-osk-gamma-twelve rising, stims have run out, talks in recess, path less taken, no such thing as luck.” 

Silence. The light blinked a few more times. 

_“How you want your caf?”_

“Mostly sugar." 

_“And your friends?"_

“They come prepared." 

_“Confirm happy coincidence.”_

“Never better.” 

A pause. 

_“...confirm?”_

“Lone wolf mission success.” 

Again, they fell silent, for longer this time. Then there was a soft rush of static, almost like… a sigh? Luke wasn’t sure— wherever this ‘Fulcrum’ was, it was too far off for him to feel their emotions. 

_“Welcome home, General. Stand by for escort.”_

Sure enough, almost as soon as they made atmo, several blips appeared on the radar display, and a new voice, one that sounded human and male, crackled through the speakers. 

_“Unidentified freighter, you have just entered Alliance airspace. Follow us down and prep for inspection, over.”_

Han shot a glance at Padmé, but answered: “You got it. Setting thrusters to cruise.” 

Moments later, something darted between the clouds. Luke’s gaze shot to the radar, and watched one of the blips curve around beside them, close enough that he _should_ be able to see it out the viewpane… 

He grinned.

“An X-Wing!” 

His mom blinked— “You’re familiar?”

“Yeah! I mean, I’ve never seen one up close, but I’ve seen holos. That’s a T-65— they’re _powerhouses_ compared to TIE fighters. Way more maneuverable in-atmo, and they’ve got shields _and_ hyperdrives!” 

She smiled. “So I’ve heard. I assume you’re familiar with other spacecraft as well?” 

“As much as I can be.” He felt the urge to do something with his hand, and settled for gripping his belt. “I had a friend at Tosche Station who’d pick up schematics for me when he was in the city. But I’ve only ever flown a Skyhopper.” 

“Skyhopper?”

“It’s an atmospheric shuttle, but it’s built like a space fighter— I’d be able to switch over pretty easy.” 

The skin around her good eye pinched at that, wrinkles deepening. 

“I’m sure you would.” 

The ship tilted around them then, and Luke looked out the viewpane just in time to see the clouds thin and fall away… 

And he realized what all the green was. 

“Whoa,” he breathed. 

It wasn’t like Tatooine didn’t _have_ trees— but they were ancient, gnarled, bone-dry things that grew thorns instead of leaves. They didn’t ripple in the wind, didn’t have colorful avians perched in their branches, taking off as starships flew overhead. And they _definitely_ grow thick enough to hide the base of… whatever those structures were. Stone, it looked like, stacked in concentric rings, and as the Falcon flew a wide arc around them, he saw little specks moving on some of those layers. 

Then the forest parted below them, revealing a wide clearing between structures, paved with landing pads and people hurrying around. 

“Welcome to Base One,” said Padmé. 

  
*****

The moment the ramp touched down she was marching off it, telling him to stay close, Artoo and Threepio bringing up the rear. Han and Chewie stayed with the ship for inspection and whatever else needed to happen. 

Luke took a single step, and faltered. 

The air was _thick,_ like the inside of a packed cantina but... cleaner? Somehow he knew the fresh smells in the air were from plants. The Force, or just instinct? They said humans must've come from a world with forests, originally, but he'd never been able to _picture_ that. The stone structures must've been hundreds of meters high, and yet they were only barely taller than the trees around them— trees that almost seemed like they were trying to eat them, clinging to them with snaking roots and vines. Spots of color grew out between huge building blocks, white and turquoise flowers, lumps of gnarled, black gunk that tiny specks darted in and out of, smaller trees actually growing out of the stone... 

Luke wasn't sure if he was sweating, or if it was just all the moisture in the air. 

A hover-cart pulled up, and out of it hopped a dozen armed rebels, humans and Twi’lek and Duros and two members of another species Luke didn’t recognize, with huge eyes and webbed, long-fingered hands. While the others formed a loose circle around the Falcon, two of them stayed with the cart, and saluted as Padmé approached. 

“General.” The one on the right, a turquoise Twi’lek with black sleeves on her head-tails. “Need a ride to medical?” 

“Numa.” She laid a hand on the soldier’s shoulder-guard. “Thank you.” 

Numa’s eyes darted to Luke, and back to his mom. “Thank _you_ for making it back to us, General.” 

The duros driver steered them toward the base of the nearest structure, where an entire section of wall had been removed to make way for a hangar; X-Wings and B-Wings and even old GAR cargo shuttles sat side-by-side, technicians in orange jumpsuits bustling around them with toolkits and welding masks. 

The cart carried them through the far side of the hangar and down an ancient hallway retrofitted with lighting, power cables, and automatic doors. 

Mom was right about the species. Luke didn’t know what to call at _least_ half of the people they passed— it was mostly twi’leks and humans and wookies, yeah, but also tall, pale-skinned humanoids with necks as long as their arms and big dark eyes, a gang of mechanics that looked like womp-rat heads on Dug-like bodies, four-armed giants… even a few _Trandoshans._

He barely even noticed when Artoo and Threepio split off, escorted down a different hallway by another group of armed guards. 

It was only getting to the medbay that snapped him out of it. Double-doors hissed open in front of him, and an odd scent reached his nose— sharp and chemical, but also… green, somehow? Faint echoes of pain and exhaustion and relief and despair sent a shiver down his spine. 

_“General on deck!”_

Several people snapped to attention— an Aqualish, three humans, and one of those pale long-necked ones, all of them wearing masks over their mouths and noses. 

One of the humans walked briskly to meet them, and undid one of the straps of his mask, revealing a stern, brown-skinned face with a neatly salt-and-pepper beard. He had the symbol of the Rebel Alliance tattooed across his left temple… and a faint, pale scar across his right. 

“Ma’am.” He saluted. 

“Doctor Billaba.” The General —because that was the voice she was using— dipped her head respectfully. “I’m afraid I’ve had something of a rough week.” 

He raised an eyebrow. 

“This is my son, Luke Skywalker. He’ll need a full physical as well.” 

A hush fell over the medbay. 

Luke glanced around, and saw everyone from medics to bedridden patients staring at him. 

Even the doctor’s eyes had gone wide— but a heartbeat later his stoic expression was back in place, and he was stepping aside and waving them toward a row of unoccupied cots. “Let’s get to it, then.” 

Halfway there he whistled, and the Aqualish medic hurried over with a small case. Inside was some kind of handheld scanner, which they waved over Padme once she was lying down, and Luke once he was sitting on the cot beside her. There was a whir, a few beeps, and in what seemed like the blink of an eye, they both had sensors stuck to their chests and IVs in their arms. Then the Aqualish started cleaning Padmé’s bruises and scrapes, while the Doctor stood beside Luke. 

“How you feeling, kid?”

“Um. Thirsty?” 

There was that eyebrow again. 

“And tired. And sore.”

The man’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he took out a datapad and started tapping. “Where you from?” 

“Tatooine.” 

Tap tap tap. 

“Your whole life?”

“Yessir.” 

His eyes flicked up again… and one corner of his mouth twitched. “Doc is fine.” 

“Oh. Okay.” 

“Lifestyle?”

“Uh— moisture farmer? I did repairs, too, speeders and— droids, and stuff.” 

Tap tap tap tap.

“Force-sensitive?”

Luke’s heart lurched in his chest, and he glanced at his mom— who was already looking at him. 

She nodded. 

“Y-yessir. Doc.” He sat up a bit straighter. “I’m a Jedi.” 

He hadn’t even noticed the all the muted conversations taking place until they abruptly stopped again. 

Surprise, disbelief, and sudden, bright _hope_ filled the medbay, so strong that Luke had to narrow his focus to the few feet around him. 

The Doctor was standing very still, one finger hovering over his datapad. His throat bobbed. 

“Can I ask who trained you?” 

“You can,” said Mom, in her General-voice, “but I’m afraid you’ll have to wait for answers until after we meet with Command.” 

“Of course, Ma’am.” He nodded jerkily. “The bruising should heal up quick. The IV’s a re-hydration mix with a light sedative and some muscle relaxants for that tangle of knots you call a back. ‘Lil bit of Bacta for any internal wear and tear. We’ll be checking your electrolyte balance every so often to make sure you’re absorbing properly. Imps inject you with anything?” 

“No.” 

A pulse of curiosity and fear came off the Doctor, then, but none of it showed on his face. 

“Alright. I’m putting you on bedrest for the next 36 hours minimum, but we can get you a hoverchair for any meetings that can’t be done via comms.” 

“I appreciate that.” 

The Doctor nodded, and turned back to Luke. “Other than your low blood sugar and stress hormones, you’re in excellent shape. We’re just gonna take some baseline readings, do some bloodwork, and get you into the system.” 

Luke didn’t know what to say, so he just nodded. 

The Doctor fully smiled, this time, even though there were all sorts of questions in his eyes. 

“Welcome to the Rebellion, Sir.” 

Luke blinked, caught off guard by the switch— but the Doctor was walking off before he could ask. 

The Aqualish took a vial’s worth of blood from both of them, and then they were alone. 

For a while there was only the beeping of machines and the quiet murmurs of subdued conversations. Luke tried to ignore the feeling of being watched, and looked over at his mom. 

Lying on her back in the bright lights of the medbay, she looked even more worn out than she had on that torture rack. The skin under her good eye might as well have been bruised, and there was a sort of far-away _dullness_ in that eye that made him uneasy. Mindful of the IV in his arm, he got up and sat on the side of her cot. Took her hand. She met his gaze. 

There was so much _sadness_ in her smile, and in the Force around her, wafting over him like cold mist… 

“I know you must have so many questions,” she said softly, “but…”

“It’s alright.” He put his other hand on top of hers. “You need to rest.” 

That made her… nervous? 

She squeezed his hand again, for longer this time, as thought taking strength from it… 

“Your sister.” 

“Mom, it’s okay, you—” 

“It’s not,” she said tersely. Her good eye fluttered shut. “It’s not. You’ve already been kept in the dark for too long.” 

...alright, that he agreed with. 

But where to even _start?_

“What…” he swallowed. “What _happened_ to her?” 

She wasn’t able to hide her pain from him, this time. It sank into his chest, and made him tear up. 

Even though _she_ didn’t. 

“I never wanted to separate you,” she said. “Please believe that.”

“Then why did you?” 

She paused, studying his face as if she were never going to see it again. “What has Obi-Wan told you of the Emperor?” 

“He’s a Sith Lord. He orchestrated the Clone Wars just to give himself more power, and to wipe out the Jedi. He manipulated my father into helping him do it.” 

She took a deep breath. Tucked some stray hairs behind her ear. “When you were born… you and Leia were the only rays of sunlight in the darkest part of my life, Luke. But you were also bright in the Force, and you seemed to… _amplify_ each other. That’s how Obi-Wan said it, at least. We feared that if we kept you together, the Emperor would be able to sense you. We hoped separating you would make you harder to find— and even if he _did_ find one of you, the other might still be safe. So Obi-wan took you to Tatooine, and Bail Organa, an old friend of mine, took Leia to Alderaan.” 

She paused there, and a tension Luke hadn’t even noticed sort of… melted off her. He felt relief, and glanced at the IV. 

“I was _so—“_ she cut herself off. Took another breath. When she continued, it was in the voice she'd used on Han— not the General voice, but not that different either. Calm and collected, nothing showing on her face... “It was a mistake. The Organas were too prominent, too closely watched. The Empire took Leia, and killed the them for sheltering her. He was Alderaan’s senator, and Breha was its queen... the Empire blamed it on rebels, but many of their people saw through it, and were inspired to resist.” 

“Just as Naboo’s destruction will inspire the galaxy.”

Luke twitched— he hadn’t sensed anyone coming. Only the secondhand relief and happiness from his mom kept him from going for his ‘saber. 

He did almost strain his neck whipping around to look, though. 

A grey-cloaked figure strode across the medbay toward them, _way_ too tall and broad to be so… _camouflaged_ in the Force. 

There were two holes in their hood, and from them rose blunt horns that turned out slightly at their blue-capped tips, while blue-striped headtails draped down outside the cloak, swaying as they walked. Luke saw scuffed-up plastoid boots, shinguards, and caught glimpses of earth-toned body armor. 

Then they stopped, sort of _suddenly,_ a few long strides away. Slender, burnt-sienna hands slipped out of the cloak, more armor around the forearms, and curled around the edges of the hood. Lifted it off the horns, and pushed it back.

Their face was the same warm color, but with white markings tracing the shape of their cheekbones and brow and sort of zig-zagging up their forehead, until they were interrupted by a leather headband. Their eyes were a pale blue, almost startling in contrast to their skin tone... and they were staring at him like they’d seen a ghost. 

“Luke,” said his mom, “this is your Aunt Ahsoka.”

What _._

“She’s a vital member of the Rebellion, and a fierce warrior.” 

For another breathless moment, her gaze flicked back and forth over his face. But it didn’t take long for Luke’s nerves to get to him, and he stood up. Held out a hand. 

“N-nice to meet you.” 

She blinked _double_ , milky-white membranes sliding away sideways a half-second after her eyelids moved, and a tentative smile began to curl her dark lips. 

Finally, he felt her in the Force— the flapping of massive wings, the scent of cleansing rain, a blessing whispered to injured prey before the mercy cut— 

Then she took a slow step forward and clasped his forearm in a _really_ firm grip, still looking at him like she wanted to memorize his face. 

He made himself hold eye contact, and squeezed the cool metal that encased her forearm. Let a bit of his own Force presence out of the winding canyons he’d built around it. 

Ahsoka tensed up for a second, double-blinking, pupils shrinking, headtails sort of rippling— 

Then he was being hugged and _lifted_ off the ground, having the breath squeezed out of him— 

“Ohhh I can’t believe it!” 

She put him down and pulled back, hands shifting to his shoulders— and Luke noticed she wasn’t smiling nearly as much as he’d expect from someone radiating so much bittersweet joy. 

But then she kept talking, and he got an inkling of why that might be. 

“I mean I _can,_ your Force presence—“

Teeth. 

“—don’t get me wrong, you’re very good at shielding, but—” 

_Sharp_ teeth, framed by honest-to-gods fangs at _least_ an inch long, maybe two— 

“—oh, just _look at you!”_

It was honestly surprising that he could still pick up on his mom’s amusement through Ahsoka’s happiness. 

“Togruta,” she said, “are one of the few species with stronger pack-bonding instincts than humans.” 

Ahsoka eased up on Luke to shoot Padmé a dry look. “I’m sorry, how many little rebels call you auntie now? I’ve lost count.” 

Padmé smiled a sleepy, blissful smile. 

Ahsoka sighed, and put her hands on her hips— which pulled the cloak out enough for Luke to see the two subtly curved saber-hilts on her belt. 

“You’re a Jedi!” 

Her smile… _shrank_ a bit, at that. 

“No,” she said. “I haven’t been a Jedi since… well. Before you were born.” 

What? “But you _were,_ once?” 

His mom shifted on her cot. “She was your father’s apprentice, during the Clone Wars.” 

Ahsoka’s expression didn’t change, but he felt the dull stab of old grief. And guilt. And anger. 

Oh. 

_You look so much like father._

Probably best to leave that conversation for later. 

“Can you teach me?” he asked. 

Ahsoka’s brow markings pinched together. She glanced at Padme, confused… and her smile disappeared completely. 

“Obi-Wan…?” 

Ah. 

Kark. 

Luke wasn’t sure what he felt like in the Force just then, but he was kinda glad it did the talking for him. 

Ahsoka looked like she’d had the wind knocked out of her. 

She sat down on the edge of Luke’s cot, and for a moment just stared at nothing in particular. 

“How?” she finally asked. 

But he couldn’t say it. 

What was he even _supposed_ to say? 

_I ran away._

_I left him to die._

_My own_ **_sister_ ** _—_

“He sacrificed himself to cover our escape from the Death Star,” said Mom. 

The Togruta took a deep breath, eyes falling closed— and snapping open again, sharp and focused… but not on either of them. 

“Ahsoka?” Threadbare linens rustled as Padmé tried to sit up. “What is it?” 

“Someone just died,” she murmured. “Unnaturally.”

“What?” Luke glanced around the medbay—

“Not here.” 

_“Where?”_

But the not-Jedi was already standing and shedding her cloak onto the cot, baring scratched pauldrons and a beaten breastplate—

“Trig!” 

The Doctor’s head snapped up from the computer terminal he was standing at. 

“Get the medbay locked down behind me. Luke, protect your mother.” 

"What? Where are you going??"

She looked down at him with a steely glint in her eye. 

“Hunting.” 

  
  
  


*******

  
  
  


Blasterfire sliced through the smoke, flashing as it struck stone and plastoid and flesh. The plaza shook with the force of another detonation, raining shattered masonry down on the chaos. Terse, coded commands and reports crackled in Ravous’ ears. 

She’d just bisected an insurgent and was raising her saber to behead another when _danger_ shot like static down her spine. 

She leapt head over heels just in time to avoid taking a blaster-scarred, blue-and-gold luxury speeder to the face. Her Death Troopers weren’t so lucky— it took half of them with it over the edge of the balcony, spraying the tiles with shards of white plastoid and pink marble, and she grit her teeth knowing she could have caught it, _should have_ caught it—

Her feet touched the ground again, and she whirled to face her assailant. 

Once more, she was grateful for the helmet. It hid her grin, a grin even the firing line of feral little rebels behind her brother couldn’t dim. 

No, the hard look in his eyes did that just fine. 

He ignited his saber with a flick of his wrist and a snapping hum, the blade casting a bright green glow through the smoke. 

Wait, _green?_ That wasn’t— 

“It’s over, Leia. I won’t let you hurt anyone else.” 

She bit back a snarl. Shifted her stance, weight balanced, one shoulder towards him and the other hidden along with her off-hand, saber held at a 45-angle.

“How many times have we gone over this, Luke?” she said. “You _know_ that’s not my name. What do you hope to accomplish by using it?” 

“It’s not about that.” 

“Oh?” She sidestepped, spinning her blade in a lazy circle. _“Do_ enlighten me.” 

He matched her, pacing the opposite way, not in any particular stance but unmistakably _ready—_

“It’ll be a cold day in the ‘Wastes before I call anyone by their slave-name.” 

It was the _earnesty_ that really made that burn. 

“You know not of what you speak.” 

“I know _you.”_ He took another step, and they were circling, now— “I think I know you better than I know myself, sometimes. I can’t help it. I can feel the pain and fear beneath your anger. The loneli—“

She clenched her free hand, crushing the Twi’lek to his right with a series of wet _snaps._

To Luke’s credit, he didn’t turn to watch them crumple— but she saw the muscle twitching in his jaw, the burst of _painguiltanger_ he released into the Force… 

“You want me to stop breaking your _worshippers?”_ Another sidestep, once again mirrored— “You know the price.” 

“Like you said, Leia.” His knuckles flexed around his saber-hilt. “We’ve been over this.”

Even the Nulls shifted uneasily at her overflowing fury. 

“Come then, _Master Jedi.”_

For a moment more they circled, blue and gold gazes locked across the bloodied, blaster-scarred stone, stepped over bodies without looking, explosions echoing through the city streets, fighters screaming overhead— 

Then he stepped forward 

She was on him in a flash, strafing his guard with enough force to flatten a Wookie. 

Wookies, of course, weren’t so damned _slippery._

When she expected a block, he parried, and when she expected a parry, he dodged. One moment he was stone, absorbing her lighting-strikes, and the next he was wind, untouchable— so she switched tactics. 

With one hand she tested his guard and with the other she reached out again, toward his allies, snapping bones with the merest twitch of her fingers— 

—leaving her strong, soft-hearted brother no choice but to press for her full focus. He advanced, beating her back with every inch of his height advantage and every ounce of his greater musculature, and _she_ became the wind, blending Maul’s acrobatic teachings with Master’s laser-scalpel precision. Parries became deadly jabs with mere flicks of her wrist, repaying his heavy slashes with close calls to his wrists and knees. 

Around them both sides opened fire, filling the air with screaming plasma and fiery blast waves. 

As they danced through the chaos, Luke’s face turned grey, sweat collecting smoke and ash, eyes bright with conviction and reflected saber-light. They slammed into a blade-lock and _pressed,_ flagstones rumbling and cracking around them, sparks flying, air-ringing— 

But she fed on the pain around them, and he had to fight not to drown in it. His focus split, and her fury triumphed where her physical strength couldn’t, shoving him back hard enough to stagger. He spun away, covering his retreat with an over-the-shoulder twirl so glaringly _Kenobi_ that her patience burned away in an instant. She charged, blade burning an arc in the stone— 

Had her helmet been made of anything else, she would have lost her head. As it was she jerked to the side, neck straining from the force of the blow, the transparisteel of her visor seared and cracked. 

She tore her helmet off with a snarl and cast it aside, barely hearing it ring against the bloodied stone because Luke hadn’t seized his opening, had stood and _waited_ — 

Master would have slain him for such a lapse. 

She would have to train it out of him. 

She played up her disorientation, blinking and swaying, then pounced, catching him off-balance and forcing him back, scorching his cheap vambraces every time he tried to go on the offensive— 

_“Leia!”_

He lunged forward and swung all too wide— 

Ravous’ blade burned a shallow gash in Luke’s side just as his deflected the sniper bolt meant for her head, 

He made a valiant effort to resist the pain, but the severing of ones oblique abdominals was really more of a mechanical issue. He fell to his knees, unable to even raise his blade without pulling at the wound. 

“Luke…” Ravous summoned the weapon to her hand. “Look what they've done to you." 

He looked so _tired,_ so weighed down and burnt out by his obsessive compassion… 

It would have broken a weaker man long ago— but his eyes were still bright. Determined. 

“I’ve never wanted to hurt you, Leia.”

“Well, that’s mutual. But _I_ don’t let it stand in the way of my duty. _I_ don’t hesitate to do what’s necessary.” She glanced at the bags under his eyes, the protective hunch of his shoulders, and sighed. “Don’t worry. The Dark Side will help you with that.” 

“You _know_ I’ll never turn.” 

“You think they care about your personal philosophy?” She swept a hand toward the smoking remains of his allies. “Luke… we _amplify_ each other. I know you can feel it.” 

“We balance each other, too,” he said. 

“You—” She knelt, close enough that they wouldn’t be overheard— “Why are so _karking stubborn?_ Together we could defeat the Emperor! We could end this war, could shape the galaxy as we see fit!” 

_There_ — a crease between his brows, a ripple in the Force as pain and logic began to erode his naive resolve… 

“I wouldn’t be myself anymore,” he murmured. “Even if I went into it with the best of intentions, that much power…”

“I would teach you how to handle it.” 

For a long moment, he bowed his head. Then he looked past her, through the now-broken archway back into the plaza— at the dead and the dying, the ancient city burning around them… 

Ravous stood. Clipped both sabers to her belt. Offered him her hand. 

“Like you said. We’ll balance each other.” 

His hand twitched, then clenched into a fist. He gazed up at her, fear and hope warring on his face and his Force presence, and she could feel him reaching out even as he held his body still… 

A shadow fell over the balcony. 

No— not just the balcony, but the riverlands below, and the mountains beyond them, what—?

She looked up… and her blood ran cold. 

“Oh,” said Luke, voice addled by pain and exhaustion. “I’ve never seen an eclipse before.” 

The sky flashed green. 

Ravous’ eyes slammed shut on reflex, too late to stop the beam from searing its afterimage into her retinas. One hand jerked up to shield her face, the other reaching blindly for Luke—

The world lurched under her, and she stumbled, blinking furiously. 

The horizon was gone. In its place was a tsunami of rock and flame, the land cracking and buckling before it, sending gouts of magma up into the darkening sky—

The blast wave hit like a Force-push, tossing Ravous like a dead leaf. Her skull cracked against something and she fell, onto her hands and knees, head ringing—

Then came a second wave of pain— in her face and her arm and her palms and her side—

No. Not hers. 

_Luke!_

He lay on the shattered flagstones before her, bleeding from the cut she’d made, reaching out for her even a a billion screams tore through her mind— 

Nonono she was so _close_ —

Then the fire rushed over them, and he was nothing but a blackened, grinning skeleton. 

  
  


She lurched up, sheets tangled around her legs, heart slamming against her ribs. Muscle memory clenched her hands around her biceps, fingers digging sharply into muscle, pain signals anchoring her mind to her body and surroundings.

Sheets. Darkness. Cool air chilling the sweat on her skin. 

_Inhale—_

Power relays and climate systems humming through the walls. 

_Exhale._

Officer’s quarters. Equatorial barracks. Death Star. 

A shiver ghosted down her back. 

She swallowed, and found her throat was dry. 

“ID-7.” 

The droid activated with a whirr and a _click._ A soft green light pierced the darkness. 

_“Good morning, Lady—”_

“Sitrep.” 

_“Time: 02:24 Local Standard, 13:24 Imperial Center,”_ ID-780 chimed. _“No priority communications received. Three point seven sleep cycles completed. My Lady, your heart rate, adrenaline, and cortisol levels are elevated. Shall I increase your dosage?”_

Ugh. 

She rubbed the sleep from the corner of her eye. “Yes.” 

Another whirr. Then the overhead lights came on low, just enough to reveal the repurposed seeker droid hovering across the room toward her, one of its hanging arms folding up to snap a med-cartridge into its injector. 

_“Medication prepared.”_

“Water first.” 

ID-7’s blipped affirmatively, and floated off to the ‘fresher. 

Ravous laid back. Took a deep, slow breath. Relaxed her muscles one by one. 

That was… _not_ just a dream. 

Her dreams were usually more Force-impressions than visuals, let alone physical sensations, and she’d _never_ had one that vivid. That _visceral._

And the place— ivy creeping over ancient masonry, balconies overlooking riverland… 

Every soldier of the Empire knew what Theed looked like, if only from the holos. Ravous had never actually _been_ there. She vaguely remembered wanting to at some point, to understand Master’s origins, and later Amidala’s, but with the freedom of movement to do so came the beskar-clad responsibilities of a general… 

And now she never _would_ understand where they came from. 

Where _she_ came from, by extension. 

_Stop it, Ravous._

_Regret is a weakness. You chose your path, now walk it._

The dead of Naboo were _far_ outnumbered by those who would live in peace once fear of the Death Star starved the Rebellion of support. 

Besides, it wasn’t even her _decision._ Tarkin was in command of the station, and she lacked the authority to countermand his orders. 

_But not the power._

She briefly entertained the idea of crushing him in full view of his subordinates, of basking in their fear and subservience, of taking control of the station… 

But the rush would be brief, the responsibility ongoing, and the victories… too _easy._ One command, one shot. No strategy, no battle, no _challenge._

And she still needed Tarkin— his wisdom, his connections, his influence… 

_“Your water, My Lady.”_

She took the glass from ID-780’s pincers and gulped it down in one go. The droid raised its injector arm, but she waved it off. 

_“Medication prepared."_

She lay back, staring at the uniform gray of the ceiling. 

Theed. 

The clarity said _vision…_ but everything she’d ever read indicated that such visions began in childhood— and Naboo was _gone._ She couldn’t be seeing the future. Nor would Master turn the Death Star on his most loyal, talented student. 

...Tarkin might, though. If he thought the long-term benefit would outweigh the strategic disadvantage her absence would cause, not to _mention_ the Emperor’s displeasure… 

No. No, Master wouldn’t kill him for that, but he would still punish him. Freeze his career, sever his connections and influence… and if there was one thing Tarkin cared about more than brutal conquest, it was his own power. 

A traitor made more sense— rebel infiltrators, collaborating with some corrupt admiral or governor? 

She could sense the headache coming on as clearly as any blaster bolt. 

_Focus, Ravous._

Theed. 

Suspiciously _vivid_ Theed, sights and smells and _presence_ despite never setting foot there. 

Of course, she’d never seen the Death Star’s… _effectiveness_ from the ground, either. 

Another shiver. Cold, recycled air against sweat-damp skin. 

_Together we could defeat the Emperor._

Why would she _say_ that? 

Sure, it was the Sith way, but… it made no _sense._ Not now, and not anytime soon. Master still had so much to teach her, and while he’d allowed her to attend court often enough to give her an understanding of Imperial politics, she had no _influence_ there. Honestly, beyond Tarkin’s professional confidence in her and the loyalty of a handful of captains, she really only had the hearts and minds of the rank and file. 

‘Remaking the galaxy as we see fit’ _might_ be a good angle to try with Luke, and the Jedi had already demonstrated their willingness to resort to assassination… but no. Luke had been deceived his _entire life._ She was going to _free_ him from the lies, not continue them. 

_Luke._

She hadn’t told Master who he was… and she couldn’t for the life of her figure out _why._ Surely he’d authorize whatever measures she deemed necessary to acquire such a powerful asset. 

...right? 

Why hadn’t she told him? 

She’d _never_ withheld information from Master like this, and yet… she wasn’t afraid. 

Not of that, anyway.

Luke, however— Luke on a base that would soon be vaporized in a flash of searing green… 

_No._

First Sister was the finest of the Inquisitors. Her success rate was unparalleled, her skills sharp as a laser-scalpel. She might not be _quite_ a match for Tano in a fair fight, but she excelled at _avoiding_ such odds. 

Of course, most of her few failures involved Tano in one way or another. She trusted First Sister, but if the Not-Jedi got involved… 

A contingency plan was required. 

Ravous rubbed her eyes. 

“Time.” 

_“02:38 Local, 13:38 Imperial Center.”_

Ugh. 

She had to be up and _alert_ at 0500. Had to start training up replacements for the Purge Troopers Luke killed, which was always _excruciatingly_ boring. Had to keep making her presence felt across the station— maybe by training with the garrison as well. Yes. She’d been feeling their curiosity and fear for days now, and could only imagine what sort of rumors were spreading through the decks concerning Luke’s little adventure and her own duel with Kenobi. Clearing the record would both endear them to her and assuage their propaganda-fueled fear of the Jedi. Perhaps she’d even also show off a bit. 

She’d be needing her sleep. 

Besides, she always thought clearer after some violence. 

“ID-7.” 

_“Yes, My Lady?”_

“Standard alarm, half volume.” 

_“Set.”_ Another whirr. _“Dosage adjusted.”_

She held out her arm for injection. ID-780 floated closer, injector readied— and stopped as she raised a hand. 

On the small, octagonal table beside the bed, her commlink was blinking red and blue. 

The Inquisition priority channel. 

She sat back up and snatched the palm-sized little disk, thumbed the main button… and smiled. 

First Sister’s transponder hadn’t moved more than a kilometer in over an hour. 

_And_ she’d sent a message— a string of letters and digits, followed by text. 

**OQ6.S457-80.GG04**

S457 was the Gordian Reach, and the 80th system by Imperial reckoning was… Yavin? Yes. 

...wait. 

The only habitable object in that system was… 

_GG04._

_...it can’t be._

_Can it?_

She re-read the coordinates twice, and then the note below them— 

_Ancient ruins repurposed as staging ground / fleet command_

—and let out a disbelieving chuckle.

Amidala made her primary headquarters in a _Sith Temple??_

Master was going to _love_ this. 

She read the rest with a smile on her face. 

_Fighter squadrons, freighters, light cruisers, AA defenses. 1000 < personnel. _

_Going dark, will update_

Good old Number One, always going above and beyond… 

Cultivating her loyalty was one of the best tactical decisions Ravous had ever made. 

_We’re going to get you out of there, Luke. Soon the lies will stop._

She forwarded the message to Tarkin’s comm, then laid back on the sweat-damp sheets. Held out her arm again. 

“Do it.” 

She watched the needle slide into her skin, and wondered what a lightsaber would feel like. Wondered if First Sister could feel the Force in her prosthetic. Wondered if the Inquisitor resented her for replacing as much as she did, if she drew strength from it...

Then the dimly lit room blurred, and she slipped back into blissful oblivion. 

  
  
  


*******

  
  
  


Any other day, Ahsoka would have shrouded herself in mind-tricks and slipped through the base unnoticed. It’d been years since she’d moved through any populated area without doing so; the habit was so ingrained that even here, surrounded by friends and allies, the feeling of being seen put her on edge. 

To say nothing of the _sound._

_“—was the one who recruited in General Syndulla—”_

_“—saw Doctor Larte talking to—”_

_“—took down a whole squad of bucketheads in—”_

_“—no one even knows her_ **_name—”_ **

_“—think her shoulders are really that broad, or is it just the armor?”_

_“Bet you ten portions I can find out.”_

_“You wouldn’t know what t’do with all that.”_

_“Yeah, bet she’d know what to do with all_ **_this,_ ** _though.”_

 _“Y’all know she can_ **_hear you,_ ** _right?”_

_“...What?”_

_“Keep it classy, ladies.”_

But she sensed that they might need to mobilize soon, and the sight of a lightsaber-wielder power-walking with a determined expression tended to rouse people. Alertness and curiosity spread in her wake, and she slipped into a light trance, feeling for any fear or hostility… but the sharp, sour note of malice she’d heard was just an echo now, and the vague traces of ancient violence weren’t helping. 

The only danger she could sense clearly was barely danger at all, just loaded carts coming around corners, agents still jumpy from whatever karked-up missions they’d just come from, a hungover Wookiee… 

She’d long since stopped being distracted by the vague aura of _hazard_ that pervaded Sabine Wren’s general surroundings, but it did put a smile on her face. The combination of that expression with the fierce focus in her eyes made a Gran lieutenant flinch as she passed. 

The part of her that automatically clocked who’d evolved from herbivores and who hadn’t got a little kick out of that. 

The same part of her that _really_ didn’t like the thought of a stranger hunting on her turf. 

She'd just dodged a herd of arriving pilots when an odd sound ghosted over her montrals. 

No, not _odd—_ out of place. 

There was no tall grass for anything to rustle through, here. 

But a highly evolved sense of hearing plus Force-sensitivity meant a _lot_ of impossible sounds to interpret. She personally thought it seemed more clear-cut than the vague ‘Nudges’ humans talked about feeling. So she honed in on the sound like a loth-wolf, and _—_

Her comm buzzed on her belt _—_ three times. 

Rex.

With a tap, she connected it to the patch stuck on the inside of her right lek. 

“Vod, I’m kinda _—”_

_“Busy, yeah. Got a feeling we’re all about to be.”_

Oh, wonderful. 

_“Base patrol just found a human body on the Falcon—”_

Fierfek. 

_“—mostly naked.”_

_Fierfek._ “Solo?”

_“No, one of the hangar guards.”_

“What am I looking for, Rex?”

_“Orange and blue civvies, if they don’t change again.”_

“If they do, I’ll feel them. Get _—”_

_“Ahsoka.”_

Ohh she did _not_ like that tone _—_

_“There was no sign of a struggle."_

Ah.

_"Far as they can tell, the victim died of—”_

“ _—_ heart failure.”

_“...yeah.”_

She ran. 

The hangar bay only had one passage leading off it, and at an inconspicuous pace for a human it’d take two minutes max to reach the main concourse, but from _there—_

_Kark._

She snatched her comm from her belt, fingers flying to dial the command center _—_

_“Fulcrum. This is General—”_

“Intruder alert! Imperial agent on-base!”

A beat of silence, a ripple of fear as they passed that on to whoever else was on-duty _—_

_“Acknowledged— security teams standing by. What else can you tell us?”_

“Mirialan female, green skin, black hair, blue eyes, _Force-sensitive._ Lock down anything you don’t want swiped _—_ and tell the troops to keep their distance and shoot to stun, corral her until I can get there!” 

Inquisitors had trackers in their saber-hilts. 

They had to evacuate _—_ but that meant open doors, armories and server hubs vulnerable in transit, and too many moving bodies to track down a single expert infiltrator _—_

_If I’d killed her when I had the chance—_

Nope. 

She shoved _that_ nasty little knot of feelings back where it came from. Not exactly the kind of thing she could release to the Force while multitasking. 

She tuned her montrals to catch that rustling ‘sound’ again, but it was gone, replaced with a heavy silence, a sort of tension that might have just been the garrison receiving those commands, but _—_

 _There—_ fear and anger _— protective_ anger, clear enough to her that it had to be either Rex or _—_

_Padme!_

She dropped into a crouch, skidded a meter to slow herself, and sprinted back the way she’d come. The Force flowed through her limbs, turning every step into a Push that launched her forward meters at a time. She vaulted over a hovercart stacked with supply crates and landed in a roll, startling a trio of wookiees as she surged to her feet and rushed between them, down the hallway. Sentients of all shapes and sizes leapt out of her way, some drawing blasters on reflex, but she was gone before they could even get a good look at her, moving so fast they might as well have been standing still, weaving between them on precognition. 

A corner rushed out to meet her and she leapt, kicking off it to turn without slowing—

And felt the Force gently ripple as several people rejoined it. 

_No!_

She tore past a security team, around a corner _—_

Only some skillful inward-TK kept her from bodyslamming a blast door. 

The controls of which had been slagged. 

She snatched her sabers off her belt and plunged them into the durasteel. As the metal began to glow and wrinkle, she took a deep breath, and focused on her fear. 

_Padmé._

She was still alive, just dimmed— unconscious. 

_Luke._

His presence was impossible to miss even as it moved away from her _—_ a bright star shining through tons of stone and metal and somehow making all the lifeform around him _clearer_ in her mind’s eye… 

All except for one. 

First Sister might not have discarded her old name, but she’d kept her gift for stealth. Honed it. Even now, Ahsoka couldn’t sense her presence… but with Luke lighting up the base, she _did_ cast a shadow. 

She’d come to take him, just like she took Ezra _—_

**_No._ **

_Deep breaths, Fulcrum._

Luke wasn’t Ezra, and this wasn’t Malachor. The darkness of this place was faded, grown through with millennia of life and decades of hope, Luke had trained with one of the greatest Jedi in recent history, First Sister was outnumbered thousands to one…

And Ahsoka had no good reason to hesitate this time. 

Not anymore. 

She uncurled two fingers, sent the disk she’d cut flying down the hallway, and was at the medbay before it’d clattered to a stop. 

She almost tripped on the guards. They lay dead at their posts beside the open doors, not a scratch on them _—_ or on the door controls. 

Sabers still humming, Ahsoka stepped inside _—_ and immediately had a half-dozen blasters trained on her. 

Mostly, she noted with a faint smirk, from the patients. 

They looked shaken up and felt it too, wide-eyed and tense and cold with fear. 

She didn’t blame them. 

Trig Billaba sat slumped against the far wall, limp and pale beneath a bright red starburst on the stone. His Aqualish assistant _—_ Herram? Hyram? _—_ knelt beside him, radiating grief and anger. 

“Who are you?” 

She turned to the speaker— an older Twi’lek, lavender-skinned and recovering from what looked like some pretty nasty lacerations, hands admirably steady around their blaster, eyeing her sabers with a mix of fear and hope _…_

Right. She’d made sure only Luke and Padmé had line-of-sight on her before dropping the Camouflage, plus the cloak… 

She had no time for this… and ‘Ahsoka Tano’ wasn’t a known name anymore. 

“Fulcrum,” she said. 

The Twi’lek’s eyes widened, and their blaster lowered just slightly. 

“You _—”_

Ahsoka flipped the safety on with a twitch of her finger, and strode quickly across the room. 

Padmé lay where she’d left her, exactly _as_ she’d left her save for her unconsciousness and the pistol in her hand. Judging by the scorch marks on the wall behind her, it hadn’t been much use. Ahsoka switched off her sabers and leaned over, checking her pulse, her presence… 

Nothing new clouding it. Sleep suggestion? Sleep _command?_

“What happened?” 

“Sh-she just walked in,” someone said. “The Doctor took one look at her and pulled a blaster, h-he _knew_ somehow _—”_

“And Skywalker?”

“Tranq dart.” A different voice this time, lower and rougher. “Strapped him to a gurney, choked anyone who tried to stop her. From across the room.” 

Kark. 

Alright. 

She’d come in on the Falcon, there was only one hangar in the building, and she’d be a fool to try and make a run for one of the others. 

“Stay put,” Ahsoka said. “There’s only one of her.” 

“Wait! Are you really _—”_

But she was already running. 

The hallways were clearer now— there must have been a basewide alert, or at least word-of-mouth from the security teams. Either way, it made things simpler; with fewer people to dodge, she focused on speed, arms pumping, lekku trailing, footsteps echoing a the shape of the hallways back into her montrals— she could hear closed doors and open ones, troops standing guard, stragglers hurrying to their barracks, a Tooka scampering around a corner—

Wheels rattling over duracrete, almost drowning out the sound of a single pair of stiff boots. 

Imperial boots. 

She wrapped the Force around herself and lunged, tossing herself forward a half-dozen meters at the time. Wind rushed over her montrals and lekku fierce as any speeder-ride, and for a moment she wished she’d brought her flight goggles—

Then the scent of scorched flesh hit her nose. 

She counted eleven bodies almost subconsciously, mapped out the path of the saber that’d killed them and the path the killer had taken to do so, right to the… 

...to the square hole in the hangar doors. 

_Really, Barriss?_

Aaand there she went using that name again. Outstanding. 

_“Freeze!”_

Ahsoka was through the breach in a heartbeat, just in time to see an Ithorian pilot take a shot at the slight figure walking toward what was presumably his cargo shuttle— who had already leaned out of the way, was already raising a slender green hand and _snapping_ —

The pilot stiffened, lowering his blaster to clutch at his chest, wheezing in pain—

The weapon clattered loudly on the duracrete floor. A moment later he fell too, gasping, powerless to re-start his heart. 

The hand that hadn’t snapped, all dark grey metal instead of smooth green skin, gripped the rail of a gurney. On that gurney was Luke, strapped down and out cold. 

Ahsoka started forward— 

“The one time I’m _not_ looking for you,” said First Sister, “and you come running right to me.” 

Then she turned, lifted her cybernetic hand off the rail, and gently curled it around Luke’s throat. 

Ahsoka’s halted mid-step, sizing her up— Luke’s saber on her belt, dark spacer’s pants and a padded orange jacket both oversized enough to hide all sorts of _surprises,_ elegant features twisted into a bitter smile, and—

Oh. 

She’d called in the wrong eye color. 

The blue was still there… but even from across the hangar, Ahsoka could see thin streaks of bright, toxic yellow. 

“Who knew the Force had a sense of humor?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this timeline Ahsoka reunited with Padmé shortly after joining the Rebellion, and Rex a few years later at most. While she's still mellowed out considerably, having family has prevented her from becoming too emotionally withdrawn. I imagine she looked forward to meeting Luke with equal parts anticipation and anxiety, and chose to really broadcast the former so he'd feel welcomed. 
> 
> Y'all ready for this big gay duel?


	18. Rescue Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Re: Luke going down easy-- he’s a special boy, but his training w Ben was limited by the need for secrecy and Barriss is like… the galactic hide-and-kidnap champion at this point. 
> 
> And don’t worry, Rebels fans! Ezra’s got a part to play in later installments :*

**9:45 BBY**

**Rebel-Occupied Massassi Temple - Yavin 4**

  
  
  


For a moment, Ahsoka did nothing. Said nothing. Just stared her down with those pale blue eyes, unblinking, dangerously still— and for all that First Sister’s hindbrain whispered _run,_ she couldn’t quite keep the smile off her face. 

Lord Ravous had agreed the boy would make a perfect lure for Ahsoka— who’d evaded capture for _decades_ by working from starships drifting in interstellar space, who even most rebels had never even heard of, let alone _seen…._ and somehow she was _here,_ just in time. 

_The Force must be with me._

At last, Ahsoka’s lekku twitched. 

_Agitation,_ First recalled, _or tightly-controlled emotion._

But which emotion? 

“Been spending time with Ravous?”

Ah. She’d noticed the eyes. 

First Sister stopped restraining her smile. 

“Inspiring, isn’t it? The little girl I found on Alderaan, all grown up and teaching me new tricks…” 

Ahsoka did an admirable job of hiding her emotions, but she was at a biological disadvantage— there were no voluntary muscles in Togrutan lekku. 

An asymmetrical roll and flick for uncomfortable surprise, the slowness of the motion suggesting reluctance— or perhaps denial? Hard to be sure with that sabacc-face on… 

“I won’t let you take him.” Ahsoka’s voice was as cool and measured as that of any Jedi master… but there was definitely a bit of a _growl_ in it. “You’ll have to kill me first.”

First didn’t flinch, but it was close. 

“Are you prepared to do that?” 

Considering the saber-scarred corpses her mind’s eye seemed determined to graft Ahsoka’s face onto, she thought her sabacc face was impressive. 

“I’ve gotten very good at live capture,” she said. 

“I’ve gotten very good at killing Inquisitors.” Ahsoka started walking across the hangar, casual as a Nar Shaddaa stabbing. “And you’re surrounded. Outnumbered. We’ve got _anti-aircraft guns.”_

First tightened her grip just enough to make the boy squirm a bit in his sleep, but not enough to wake him. 

“Think this through, Inquisitor. No plan survives contact with the enemy— you know that.” 

“I’m _not_ your enemy, Ahsoka.” She couldn’t keep the frustration out of her voice, the urgency— “I’ve **_never_** been.” 

And the last true Jedi, the living image of what they _all_ should have been, just looked… sad. 

“You really believe that.” 

First clenched her jaw, but kept her free hand perfectly still. 

_She hasn’t listened to reason in the past decade, you’re a_ **_fool_ ** _for expecting her to now—_

 _Show her I have to_ **_show_ ** _her then she’ll understand, then she’ll_ **_stop looking at me like that_ ** _—_

A deep breath echoed through the quiet of the hangar. Tension melted off Ahsoka’s shoulders, lekku rippled, those pale eyes fell closed— 

And First Sister, through a sudden wave of agony, realized that the numbers and the AA guns _weren’t_ actually her biggest tactical disadvantage here. 

Every time they’d met over the last ten years, even as they crossed blades, Ahsoka had been masking her Presence. 

No longer. 

Fierce, primal _anger_ blazed through the Force— but not the hungry rage of the Dark. It was blinding like a magnesium flare in moonless night, cleansing like peroxide in a deep, festering wound _—_

First grit her teeth. The Dark rushed to her reflexively, a flood of soothing cold through her bones and veins and muscles, numbing her to the burn of Ahsoka’s Presence— 

And next to her, the boy groaned.

She bit back a curse, fumbled for the hypo she’d stashed in her jacket, tore it free and flicked the cap off— 

Too late. 

He was a tiny star in her mind’s eye, burning through the sedatives, burning through her _defenses—_ a nd her stupid, traitorous instincts _shoved the gurney away._

Ahsoka was there before she’d even fully registered her mistake. Red plasma met white in two blinding flashes, all of the huntress’ _considerable_ strength bearing down on First’s blade—

— _Stars_ she was tall—

She saw the exact instant Ahsoka realized how much of her arm had been retrofitted. Her jaw flexed, her gaze darted toward what little metal she could see, and First seized that instant of split focus to slip under her guard and _slash—_

Ahsoka somersaulted over the blow, of course, but First was there to meet her when she landed, cybernetic wrist rolling and twisting without losing a newton of strength, blade clashing with Ahsoka’s too fast for the eye to track. They both slipped into light trances, trusting precognition over vision, and their willpower clashed like two waves, splashing the space around them with fury and determination and violent intent.

Their sabers arced and flashed through the poorly-lit hangar, burning moisture from the air, scarring the duracrete and severing the cables and hoses that fed the ships around them. Ahsoka had greater reach, but she clearly wasn’t accustomed to an opponent whose style revolved around such asymmetrical strength. 

Skywalker had trained himself to balance out the hand, after all. 

First flipped back, narrowly avoiding bisection, landed on the locked foils of an X-Wing— 

And Ahsoka sliced through it without hesitation. First leapt again as the metal fell out from under her, over the fighter, and in the few seconds that it blocked Ahsoka’s view she cut the sleeve away from her metal forearm— 

Then she dropped into a crouch on instinct. 

The X-Wing’s landing gear shrieked over the floor as its body rushed through the air where she’d just been, revealing the blinding blur of Ahsoka’s sabers flashing down toward her— 

She rolled sideways only for the severed foils to slam down like a blast door in her path, and lifted herself with TK, saber parallel to her body _just_ in time to catch Ahsoka’s upward slash. The force of it lifted her further, over the now-falling metal and into a wide open stretch between fighters and shuttles. She landed in a bruising roll and sprang to feet her just as those pale blades scissored toward her neck—

First bent back and snapped a foot out. The sabers sliced past inches from her face, and her metal-capped heel _cracked_ sharply against Ahsoka’s breastplate.

They twirled back in opposite directions, both shedding momentum, and paused. 

Plasma hummed. Severed cables sparked and crackled. Two sets of lungs heaved with exertion. 

The reflective membranes deep in Ahsoka’s eyes caught the red of First Sister’s blade… and just for a moment, she let herself _imagine_. 

She saw Ahsoka’s powerful form clad in crisp, form-fitting black, her gaze gold and crimson and burning with all the passion she’d worn so openly in her youth, unashamed and unrestrained and finally _understanding,_ finally looking down at First with something, _anything_ other than pain and regret— 

—finally _smiling_ at her again— 

She stopped herself before want could become hope. 

_Hope is the mind-killer._

Ahsoka was stronger than her. She’d _always_ been stronger. First would need her wits to see this through. 

She planted her feet and raised her blade into a high guard. Bold. Almost _taunting._

Ahsoka sank into a low stance, sabers held almost idly to either side, centimeters from the floor. 

For a long moment, neither of them moved. 

Ahsoka’s left lek twitched—

Once again, vision was useless. It was precognition that snatched her leg away from one white flash and shifted her weight back enough that blocking the other sent her into a twirling slash. As she spun away she flexed her ring finger, opening the hidden compartment in her forearm and plucking out its payload—

Ahsoka leapt. 

Three tiny tranquilizer darts whistled through the air where she’d been and swung around First in a tight arc—

One swing of a saber turned them to droplets of slag; two struck Ahsoka's breastplate, but the third hit her lek. 

A shrill chirp echoed through the hangar. Then came a snarl, and the sound of a body bouncing off a durasteel hull. 

First softened her fall with TK and sucked in a pained gasp, resisting the tug of her precognition to keep her throbbing back to the shuttle— 

Ahsoka took the bait. 

**—** ** _kriffing hell_ ** _she’s fast_ —

First barely got her saber up in time to stop Ahsoka’s crossed blades from taking her head off, ignored the swell of dry heat as their ends melted the metal to either side of her face, tore her eyes away from those caf-colored lips and the deadly fangs they’d curled back to bare and focused on angling her forearm _just so—_

A flex of her little finger launched two tiny, electrified harpoons right at Ahsoka’s exposed throat. 

The Togruta leaned out of the way, slid one saber off First’s to slash the stun-cables— 

_Got you._

First’s metal hand snapped from her own hilt to Ahsoka’s and clamped down on her fragile organic fingers. 

She couldn’t hear the bones crack over the hum of their sabers— but she saw Ahsoka’s markings pinch in pain, saw the muscles of her jaw flex and her fangs _snap_ shut—

Then she ducked under Ahsoka’s arm, narrowly dodging a stab to the belly and spinning away, back into the open—

Ahsoka’s legs were longer than she remembered. She also kicked like a Lasat. 

First rolled hard across the duracrete floor, pain stabbing through her side too sharply to be anything but broken ribs but she had no time to stop and assess— she got her feet under her, met Ahsoka’s onslaught with her organic arm, and angled her prosthetic as if to deploy another surprise. 

The long blade caught First’s own, the shoto flashed out—

And bounced off the Phrik casing of her forearm. 

Surprise rippled through the Force. 

The boy’s saber slapped into First’s mechanical hand, ignited with a snap-hiss—

And grinning, she dragged the shoto around in a flawless Skywalker twirl. 

It flew from Ahsoka’s broken fingers, arced high over the inert bulk of a starfighter, and clattered somewhere out of sight. 

Ahsoka twirled away, injured hand hugged close to her body. 

First twirled her sabers, the earned and the stolen, triumph pulsing through her veins like the sweetest spice, igniting the ache of her ribs and back and muscles into burning clarity. She could feel Ahsoka’s heart pounding, her hand throbbing, her lek stinging, and breathed it in along with the humid air. 

She felt a bead of sweat roll down her neck, to where her undershirt was already plastered to her back. Another dripped down through the hair stuck to her brow, and she had to blink it out of her eye. 

She saw Ahsoka do the same, one semi-translucent membrane blinking sideways to clear her vision without looking away. Her lekku were writhing and curling, emotional tells blending together too fluidly for First to interpret without distraction. 

The Darkness _purred_ to see the enemy so affected by—

No. 

_Its_ enemy, not hers. 

Even now, so dogmatically committed to the Rebellion, Ahsoka still cared about her too fiercely to hide it— _that_ was what pleased her, not the vulnerability. 

Though she _was_ more vulnerable now than First had seen since… well. 

Perhaps it was time to try this again. 

Ahsoka had evaded capture for twenty years, and she’d had a few Inquisitors at her mercy. Interrogated them, surely examined their gear as well, must know about the trackers... 

“You know what’s coming,” First rasped. She hadn’t realized how dry her throat was. “How long will it take to evacuate this base?” 

Ahsoka’s jaw flexed. Her eyes narrowed. 

“How long are you willing to _delay_ the evac—” 

They both stilled at the same instant, both shielding their minds against the sudden wave of confusion and panic and _fear_ from—

_Karabast._

First threw a hand out, knocking Ahsoka off her feet, and burst into a sprint— between hulls and wings and landing gear and around a pyramid of supply crates, toward the old CIS shuttle and the gurney beside it—

She heard a saber ignite somewhere in the hangar, echoing strangely between stone and metal—

The boy’s head lolled toward her as she jogged to a stop, drowsy blue eyes widening as he saw her, limbs straining against the straps—

She seized his jaw to hold him still, reached for the hypo she’d dropped on the gurney— and gripped only fabric. 

For one lurching heartbeat, she didn’t move, just stared at the threadbare linen, mind replaying the sequence of events. Then her gaze darted over the sheets, the floor around them—

 _Kriffing_ — 

She let him go, went for the backup in her jacket—

And closed her fingers around it just as something struck the back of her thigh. 

Only once she’d processed the impact did she notice the _piercing_ sensation. 

Only once she’d snatched the injector out of her thigh did she hear the footsteps approaching. 

“Did you check his medical file?”

Ahsoka’s voice was slightly muffled by the ragged strip of cloth between her teeth. She tugged as she walked, tying up the wrap that now kept her injured hand closed around her shoto.

“Did you calculate the right dosage for his body mass? Or did you just eyeball it?” 

She braced one hand on the rail just in time to steady herself against the soothing tingle spreading up her leg—

“If you’d checked, you’d have seen he weighs seventy kilos. You’re… what? Fifty-five tops?” 

Kark. 

“What’d you even put in this?” She kicked the empty hypo, sending it skittering across the floor. “Sedatives? Muscle relaxants? Both?”

First leaned back against the rail to free up her flesh-and-blood hand, fumbling for the other injector—

“If we start toward the medbay now, we might be able to get you an antidote in time.” 

First would have expected the words to sound smug. But they were just… flat. Factual. 

As if Ahsoka didn’t _care._

Even after everything First had done to _save her,_ all the lying and fighting and **_killing_ **—

The rail crumpled in her grip. 

Rage turned to cleansing fire in her veins, burning through the drugs like kindling. 

_“I_ **_am_ ** _the antidote.”_

She took a deep breath, feeding the flames, snatched the injector out of her jacket, and stabbed toward the _boy’s_ leg—

Ahsoka’s willpower hit her like a landspeeder. 

She hit the floor hard, broken ribs screaming, rolled once—

—twice—

 _—three_ times before she Pushed to her feet and staggered back, legs still weak, head still swimming with the last traces of sedative. 

She summoned both sabers to her hands, igniting them just in time to catch Ahsoka’s double downward slash. Her flesh-and-blood shoulder burned with effort, and her left knee shook— so she dropped, sliding forward on her shins and slashing at Ahsoka’s ankles. They dove in opposite directions, both somersaulting back onto their feet and spinning to face each other, blades raised.

The stance tugged at the muscles around First’s broken ribs, and with them weakened her back and chest took on more of the strain of balancing the prosthetic’s weight—

 _That’s why she kicked me there she knew what she was doing all her skill and cleverness for this lost cause when she could be_ **_saving lives_ **—

She realized, distantly, that the roar was coming from her throat, that her side was throbbing, that her limbs were burning— but it didn’t matter, didn’t affect her. She had an unbreakable arm and two working hands and all the power she would _ever_ need. She met Ahsoka blow for blow, dancing around the immobility of her broken, wrapped-up hand, driving her back step by step toward the ancient stone of the temple walls. 

That was when she heard the first _snap._ Not of bone but of… plastoid? Fabric? 

_Doesn’t matter finish her break her_ **_make her understand_ **

Ahsoka’s focus skipped past her. First lunged, but Ahsoka locked their blades together and leaned in with all her height and weight—

“Luke, stay back!” 

_“No!”_

Ah. 

“Luke—” 

_“I’m_ **_not_ ** _running away again!”_

Ahsoka darted away, quick as ever. First turned, reached out, and caught the gurney in midair—

No. 

Only _slowed_ it. 

She threw herself sideways just barely in time— right into Ahsoka’s sabers. The blows caught her off-balance, forcing her to retreat, back toward where _Anakin Skywalker’s son_ was gathering his wits and his powers, blazing brighter and brighter every second. 

She needed to end this _now._

_One last trap, then._

Ahsoka was a whirlwind of searing plasma, blades twirling high and low to fluid and fast too regain the advantage, so as she warded off bisection with one saber she mirrored the strike with the other— and in the instant before Ahsoka could oh-so-easily bat it aside she switched that saber off, bypassed her guard, and re-ignited it right into the Togruta’s thigh. 

**_Yes!_ **

She switched it off again quickly so as not to turn a love-tap into an amputation—

Ahsoka kicked her in the chest, this time. 

All the breath left her lungs in a jarring, weightless instant— at the end of which her head _bounced_ off the unforgiving stone—

_What—_

— of the floor. Because she was on her back. Looking up at the ancient stone of the ceiling. 

_Wait._

She lurched up and immediately regretted it, then scrambled back almost instinctively, even as she gasped for air, because Ahsoka was _walking toward her_ — _how—?_

Oh. 

The earthy red paint of her thigh-guard had been scorched away, the metal warped in a distinct ring— but not melted through. 

_Beskar._

_Of course._

She noticed the tug on her saber just an instant too late to stop it from flying out of her— 

No. Not her saber. _Skywalker’s._

He caught and ignited it in a single fluid motion, settling into what looked like a relaxed Soresu stance—

Ahsoka was still coming. 

First sister rolled to her feet, remaining saber held low in a one-handed fool’s guard, taking a few calm steps back while she wracked her brain for another trap, another vector, another strategy but it was kriffing _hard_ to think through the somehow not-dark anger turning Ahsoka’s Presence into a bonfire—

Kark. 

_Kark!_

She tossed her saber to the ground. 

Ahsoka kept coming, sabers humming low and deadly, expression grim and focused. 

First swallowed dryly, stopped retreating, and said: 

“I see you’ve changed your stance on executions.” 

Ahsoka kept coming. 

“You may not be a Jedi,” she said evenly, “but he is.” 

There— just a subtle twitch of a lek, but… 

“For the moment, anyway.” 

Another twitch, obvious this time, an agitated ripple— 

And at last, Ahsoka’s anger turned just a little bit _cold,_ little bit _hungry,_ and she bared her fangs with deep, throaty growl.

First did her best to ignore the shiver that sent down her sweat-slick back, and cast a considering gaze at the boy’s half-conscious form. 

“You’ve had a rough few days, haven’t you, Skywalker? All those Jedi teachings being stress-tested. I know what example _I’d_ set for him, of course…” 

Ahsoka stopped. 

Her lekku practically _coiled_ in conflict, and First kept her gaze on that conflict… but her focus was on the needle-tipped plastoid tube she’d dropped when Ahsoka tossed her away from the boy. It still lay where it had fallen, a stone’s throw behind him…

For about two point five seconds. 

She twitched her saber-hand as she sent it flying, just to pit his senses against his precognition. 

He yelped as the hypo stabbed into his lower back.

Ahsoka’s head twitched toward the sound, let slip a pulse of panicked fear— and First poured all her frustration and anger and _want_ onto the fire in her breast, and _gripped._

Ahsoka stiffened as her throat closed. She dropped the saber that wasn’t tied into her hand, reached for her neck— 

Stopped. 

Lowered her hand. 

Clenched it into a fist. 

And First’s grip on her neck _weakened,_ a noose of thought being slowly, millimeter-by-millimeter, worked loose. 

First grit her teeth and redoubled her effort, feeling where Ahsoka’s trachea was and willing it to **_shut_ **— 

She might as well have tried to choke a wall. 

Ahsoka made no gesture, no movement but to plant her feet and breath like she was meditating, each breath feeding the blaze of her Force presence, fueling the pain behind First’s eyes—

**_No!_ **

First lifted her other hand and _pushed._

She barely noticed the lights flickering, the metal rattling and groaning, the shouts echoing through the hangar—

“It’s over, Barriss.” 

“No.” _That’s not my name she was_ **_weak_ ** _they killed her and I rose from the ashes and you will to if you just_ **_karking listen— “No._ ** You don’t have to die with the Rebellion, Ahsoka! Please, just _come with me!!”_

“Why?” Ahsoka’s face shone with sweat, eyes screwed shut, brow markings furrowed in fierce concentration— “To be tortured and twisted into a murderer? Is that _really_ what you want for me?” 

“I want you to **_live!”_ **

Something shattered, raining sparks down from above—

“I _can’t_ live like that, Barriss.” 

First Sister almost laughed. “Yes you can! You’ve survived so much— it would be _easy_ for you.” 

“I wouldn’t be the person you’re trying to save, anymore. Just... another _tool,_ for the Empire to use and discard.” 

“Is that what I am to you?” First’s voice shook with fury and effort and desperation— “A _tool?_ A **_thing?”_ **

Ahsoka opened her eyes, pain and sadness buried behind— no, _reinforcing_ a wall of pure determination. 

“You are what you choose to be.” 

First did laugh this time, choked-off and bitter. 

When had she _ever_ had a choice? 

No. 

**_No._ **

She would not fail, would not— _could not_ lose Ahsoka again, could not let her light go out of the universe for these undeserving _anarchists_ — 

—had to save her from them—

And from the Empire. 

The Empire that slaughtered and made her slaughter, that enslaved and made her enslave, that turned little Leia Organa into a beautiful monster and destroyed Jedha and Naboo and made First kill and kill and kill and **_kill_ **—

A ragged, broken scream tore out of her throat. 

Ahsoka’s closed once again… and this time she didn’t push back. Didn’t reach for her neck or her sabers, didn’t strain against First’s hold—

She just… stared her down, eyes sad and soft and… 

_Hopeful._

First grit her teeth, squeezed until she could feel Ahsoka’s spinal cord in her phantom grip, so bright and strong and _fragile,_ and— 

_Oh Stars._

Snatched her hand away. 

Ahsoka fell to one knee. 

First fell to both, reeling, stomach twisting in sick horror at what she almost— what she’d been so close to— what she’d _wanted_ to—

“I’m sorry,” she choked out. “I-I’m _sorry.”_

Ahsoka rubbed at her throat. Winced. 

“...so am I.” 

Yet another laugh almost escaped First’s lips.

_Fat lot of good it is._

At least… at least she got the coordinates to Ravous. At least she’d done her part to end this. To bring peace. 

She bowed her head. Took a deep, shaky breath. 

“You should do it now,” she said. 

Ahsoka said nothing— but First felt a whisper of confusion. So she met Ahsoka’s eyes, and glanced pointedly at the boy. He was slowly pushing himself up off the floor, eyes and Force-signature still clouded. 

“Before he regains his wits. You can tell him I was faking weakness. That I gave you no choice.” 

Ahsoka didn’t move. Just… stared at her again. 

First couldn’t read the look in her eyes. So she looked away, down at her hands, warm green and cold, deadly grey. 

“Do it!” She _hated_ how weak her voice sounded, hated all the pain she’d endured for _nothing,_ hated that she’d had to do _any of this_ in the first place— “Just… don’t let them put me in a cell.”

_Not again._

Her head was throbbing, her vision blurring and darkening at the edges… 

“Barriss…”

 _“Please.”_ Her eyes… wouldn’t stay open. “Don’t… let them...”

Kark. 

  
  


*******

  
  
  


By the time Luke could sit up without getting dizzy, the… _Inquisitor_ was down, slumped on her side on the cold stone floor, and Ahsoka was getting to her feet. 

He shook his head. Blinked some more. 

Ben taught him to purge a variety of things from his body, but… _ugh._

 _Guess he never had access to…_ **_whatever_ ** _that was._

He’d have to find out what it was. Practice in small doses. 

He leaned back, bracing himself on his hands, and watched Ahsoka walk over to the Inquisitor. Watched her stop and stand over her for a moment. He could see her torso heaving with deep breaths, but he couldn’t see her face, and whatever she was feeling was hidden from him. 

Which was… _not_ something he was used to. 

Made him kinda uneasy, to be honest. 

As if she’d heard the thought, Ahsoka turned— and the instant she laid eyes on him, she was hurrying over, long legs eating up the hangar floor. 

“Obi-Wan taught you well.” She offered her un-wrapped hand. “How do you feel?” 

He opened his mouth to say _fine,_ and words just started spilling out.

“I’m sorry, I-I could feel _something,_ but it was… vague, until it wasn't, and I was looking at her saber, I didn’t expect the _needle_ —” 

“It’s alright, Luke.” She knelt in front of him, and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Inquisitors are trained to mask their presences, and... well. She's probably the one who trains them, at this point. If you hadn’t recovered so quickly, that… could have been ugly.” 

Luke blinked. _“Could_ have been?” 

A wry smirk tugged at her lips as she stood and pulled him to his feet. Then she walked back over to the Inquisitor. Knelt over her. 

Luke felt people hurrying into the hangar, all confusion and fear and readiness, but… 

Ahsoka reached down, and gently brushed a lock of messy black hair out of the Inquisitor’s face. 

Then she pulled her hand away like it’d been burned. 

Men with blasters jogged over to her, but she ignored them. She curled one arm under the smaller woman’s legs, the other under her back, and stood, lifting her like she weighed nothing.

Luke wasn't surprised. She looked a lot smaller when she wasn't murdering people. Small and gaunt and limp... 

Ahsoka paused briefly to say something to the soldiers, then walked off toward the main hallway, murderer cradled in her arms. 

Everyone she passed looked about as confused as Luke felt. 

A low whistle jolted him from his fogged-up thoughts. 

“And I thought _smuggler_ drama was nasty.” Han Solo sauntered over, clever eyes surveying the damage before looking Luke up and down. “ _You_ got any crazy magic exes I should look out for?” 

“What?” 

His movements were even smoother and more relaxed than when Luke had first met him, his cheeks were slightly flushed, and his hair looked like he’d been running his fingers through it. 

Then Luke’s brain caught up to his words. 

“I— no!” 

The pilot just raised one eyebrow. 

“I wouldn’t— I mean, I haven’t—” 

He was smirking. 

Luke crossed his arms, and looked away. “Did you need something?” 

Han shrugged. “I just came to catch the show. Kinda wish it’d lasted long enough to start a betting pool…” 

Luke stared at him for a second. Was he _joking—_

Han clapped a hand on his back. “Good t’see you in one piece, kid. You ever seen a drunk Wookie? Chewie ran into some friends. Bet Jedi drink for free here.”

Luke forced himself to think straight through the slight sleepy fog in his head. The strength of Han’s grip on his shoulder wasn’t helping. Neither was the warm weight of his arm across Luke’s back, or the smell of engine grease and clean laundry and sweat— 

_Mom_.

His heart skipped a beat. 

_Emotion, yet peace._

Ahsoka did run back to the medbay, or tell _him_ to run back to the medbay— so Mom was probably fine. 

Or at least mostly fine. 

“I’ll, uh, have to find out later” he sad. “Gotta check on my mom.” 

Solo thumped him on the back again, then pulled away. 

“Suit yourself, farmboy.”

If Luke watched the way he swaggered for a minute… well. He'd just been drugged. Twice. Couldn’t blame him for spacing out a little. 

He tore his eyes away from the smuggler’s broad back, and looked around the hangar. 

Stacks of supply crates had been knocked over, some of them dented, one or two slashed open, spilling ration packs and ammunition onto the floor. Sparks rained from broken light fixtures. More than one ship had jagged scars melted into their hulls, and that was just in his line of sight. 

And the Force… the rage was still echoing through the hangar, but it didn’t feel like Ravous’. _Leia’s._ There was a bitter sadness to it, a desperation, old emotions both warped and deepened… 

He sat on a crate, and just tried to get his bearings. 

  
_What the hells_ ** _was_ ** _that?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell I've been watching She-Ra
> 
> This was originally gonna be part of a longer chapter of which the duel was only the first part, but I decided it was really too much of a focal point for that


	19. K'oyacyi

**DS-1 Orbital Battle Station - Hydian Way**

**07:00 BBY**

  
  
  


**_Priority Alert N3.12_ **

Transponder signal loss. 

**_SUBJECT: INQ-01_ **

Ravous went very still. 

Every Inquisitor carried at _least_ four trackers. Two in their helmet, two in their lightsaber hilt, and however many more Ravous or the current Grand Inquisitor saw fit to attach to the agent in question. 

First Sister had stowed away on the freighter in full uniform. She would have hidden that uniform and obtained a disguise upon arrival to the Rebel base.

If all four had stopped transmitting… 

_She failed me._

The comm spat sparks as Ravous crushed it. 

This explained the _shift_ she’d felt. Like the sound of rotten wood groaning under some great weight… 

She handed the ruined disk to ICC-126, and clasped her hands behind her back. Glared out at the arena full of troopers before her. 

_Tano._

It had to be. Only trained Force-sensitives were a real threat to First’s stealth, but for all Luke’s raw power, secret training would not have equipped him to face someone like her. First knew Luke’s potential, and she was sharp enough to have gleaned some idea of what Luke meant to Ravous— with his extraction as her objective, she would not have hesitated to kill any other Jedi that stood in her way… except for her old, wayward _friend._

Ravous’ knuckles started to ache from how hard she was clenching her fists. She did not unclench them. It would only spill her rage onto something else, and clones were in short supply these days. 

She had sabotaged herself. 

If she had not actively encouraged First’s fixation on Tano, her brother would be out of harm’s way. 

**_Foolish girl._ **

She suppressed a flinch. Took a deep breath. 

It didn’t help. 

_The dream._

She’d seen Luke die in uncanny detail, incinerated by the same weapon that destroyed Naboo— 

_No._

**_No._ **

Luke was _hers,_ and so was First Sister. 

Neither the Rebels nor the Force would take them from her. She wouldn’t _let_ them, would unleash her wrath upon them for even daring to try— 

The transparisteel shuddered in front of her. 

_Focus._

_Your will must be_ **_stronger._ **

Deep breaths. 

_Mission parameters: dual extraction, limited window._

With a gas giant the size of Yavin, and the structural integrity of the station to consider, they’d have to drop out of hyperspace at _least_ fifty thousand klicks out, and the rest of the approach would have to be mostly inertia in order to decelerate in time, which gave her a window of approximately… two hours? 

Hm. 

Not many options, there. Best to keep it straightforward. 

“Commander.” 

ICC-126 snapped his heels together. “Sir.” 

“See that my Interceptor is refuelled and reloaded as soon as possible. Standard escort.” 

“Yessir. Standard ordinance as well?” 

“No. Frag missiles. And… four Seeker Droids.” 

“On it.”

She heard his fingers tapping a datapad… and sensed a hint of envy in his curiosity.

She smirked. “Don’t worry, soldier. I’ll show you the holo afterward.” 

His envy… _bloomed_ into something that was _almost_ arousal, and Ravous smirked behind her mask. 

It’d be a shame when the last loyal Fett Clones ran out. 

Perhaps she’d re-appropriate some of Tano’s. 

  
  
  
  
  


*******

  
  
  


**Rebel Corvette _Steela_**

**Base One - Yavin 4**

**03:00 BBY**

  
  
  
  


They’d cut her hair. 

Odd kriffing detail to get stuck on, given the circumstances, but Ahsoka had always been fascinated by hair… and between the hoods, shawls, and the helmet, she’d never actually seen First Sister’s. 

Until now. 

The sides and back had been buzzed short, and what remained on top had been trimmed to a few sleek black inches, tousled and spiky from the fight. 

Ahsoka averted her eyes. 

Even now, it felt wrong to see her without a hood or a veil or a helmet. Voyeuristic. 

She finished tying First Sister’s wrist to the frame of the cot, and stood. 

She took a moment to simply be still; to feel the ache in her joints and muscles and broken fingers, to let the soft sounds of the _Steela’s_ atmo systems slowly whisper her a mental map of the room. 

Then she sat on the opposite bunk, and let herself look again. 

_She’s so thin._

Ba— _First Sister_ had never been a _large_ person, but even as one of the most disciplined Padawans in the Order, there had always been a softness to her features. 

Not now. 

_Probably not for a long time._

The elegance that Ahsoka had once found so _confusing_ had turned sharp. Severe. And the ribs visible through her undershirt, the breasts that were _barely_ visible, barely there at all, the striations visible in the scant muscles of her chest, shoulder, and arm… 

All too lean to deliver the crushing blows that still had Ahsoka’s hands and wrists aching. 

Just how heavily had she been drawing on the Dark? 

Ahsoka forced herself to look at the woman’s face again, and had to regulate her breathing. 

She could still barely believe they’d taken her tattoos. It seemed so karking _petty._

She’d known that since the clusterfrip on Sullust, but seeing it now, without any allies or adrenaline or crackling sabers to distract her… 

It was worse than seeing her hair. 

Unmarked, the sickly pallor of her olive skin was somehow more obvious. Ahsoka knew helmet-pale, and this was beyond that, an almost translucent dullness. The darkest parts of of her face were the bruise-like shadows around her eyes. There were new lines there, and a new crease between her brows, drawn tight by tension even in sleep. 

She looked like she’d aged eight years in the four since Malachor. 

_New tricks,_ she’d called it. With a _grin_ on her face. 

_Fierfek._

Ahsoka’s hands began to ache. She took a deep breath, and unclenched them from the steel frame of the cot beneath her. Tore her gaze away from First Sister’s sleeping face. 

It landed on the cybernetics grafted to her upper chest. 

Because of course the Empire couldn't only replace what _needed_ replacing. No, they’d amputated all the way up to her karking collarbone, replacing it with a smooth metal replica that seemed to serve as an anchor for the armor-plated synth-muscle of her shoulder. 

Ahsoka wondered if she’d had a choice in how much of her they’d... _retrofitted._

Wondered how much it weighed. 

Wondered how uneven her musculature was, underneath that… 

_Huh._

The scoop neck of First Sister’s undershirt bared several long, clinical scars radiating out from her mechanical shoulder and across her right pectoral… and one of them cut right through an oddly _angular_ mass of scar tissue peeking out from under the fabric.

For a moment, Ahsoka hesitated, eyeing the spot. Then she leaned forward across the space between them, carefully pinched the edge of the shirt, peeled it back a bit… 

And froze. 

She felt the slight pull of her lekku spasming, the hot flare of anger in her chest, the involuntary curl of her lips baring her fangs— 

The Imperial cog. 

They’d **_branded her_** with the _Imperial cog._

How could she _want this_ for anyone else? How could she drag innocent people into this with her and call it—

No.

_Slow down, Fulcrum._

_Breathe._

_You’ve talked to other Inquisitors. You’ve talked to_ **_Ventress._ **

_You know the how._

_You know the why._

_Breathe._

A brand. By the slightly _stretched_ look of it, applied either during or shortly after her imprisonment. 

Her ribs showing, her face gaunt… disregard for her health, both on her part _and_ on the part of her… 

Her what?

Superiors? 

Handlers? 

_Slavers?_

Ahsoka stopped the growl building in her throat. Took several deep, slow breaths. Rested her hands palm-up on her thighs, and took several more. 

Then she let herself feel it. 

It had taken ‘til Malachor for the tangle of things she felt toward Barriss to tighten into a knot of rage… and all it took was a few signs of mistreatment to begin loosening it again. 

She was almost thankful for the brand, in a way. It was hard for her to be truly angry at someone who’d been… treated like this. 

Oh, she was still _plenty_ angry— but it was a low smoulder compared to the molten pool of rage she felt toward the Empire, toward Anakin, toward _herself_ for missing all the karking signs… 

No. 

She didn’t miss them, she _rationalized_ them. Explained them away. Told herself they were nothing to be worried about, because if her Master could be overtaken by rage and the perfect Padawan could be overcome by grief and frustration, then it was alright for _her_ to feel the same things. 

Which she knew it _was,_ now, but seeing people from Before always had a way of bringing out the traumatized sixteen-year-old in her. 

And she _had_ been traumatized long before the bombing and the trial and those cold, bitter months in Coruscant’s underbelly. She could see that now. She wouldn’t expect a child soldier to see warning signs in a historically introverted friend from across the galaxy now… 

But the guilt was still there, like a piece of shrapnel buried deep in her chest, one that burned hot when she saw what the callousness of humans—

—of _fascists,_ and of the huddled masses that had been frightened into siding with fascists—

—had done to this woman. 

_And countless others._

She took the deepest breath she could, and held it for a moment. 

_This is a step toward justice._

_I took her alive, and I have the resources to help her._

_This is a step toward justice._

_I responded as quickly as I could. I saved Luke’s life. I may still save_ **_her_ ** _life. The information she has may save hundreds more._

_This is a step toward justice._

_I have an opportunity to give her the compassion she’s been starved of. To help her._

_To finally move_ **_past_ ** _this._

_This is a step toward justice._

She paused. Listened to the symphony of life from the jungle outside. Her anger was nothing to it— just a single aberrant chord, barely audible over the thirst and hunger and joy and pain of millions of organisms.

She inhaled…

_From suffering comes compassion._

Exhaled. 

Inhaled…

_From cruelty; mercy._

Exhaled. 

Inhaled… 

_From violence; love of peace._

Exhaled. 

Inhaled. 

Repeated the mantra. 

Soon, with each outward breath, she was able to release the slightest bit of anger into the Force. Boiling gas and pressurized pipes came to mind. 

_From suffering comes compassion._

_From cruelty; mercy._

_From violence; love of peace.*_

Some people did need to be _re-introduced_ to peace to realize what they were missing, but that wasn’t easy to fit into a mantra. 

The words echoed through her mind, summoning up the sound of relieved laughter, of broken collars clattering to the floor, of the quiet, soothing music Kaeden played in her clinic… 

She synced her breathing to her heartbeat. 

_In-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight…_

_Out-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight…_

And the more the rage she vented, the more clearly she could sense the quiet thunder of Rex’s Presence, drawing closer, as well as… 

Ah. 

Sabine was _pissed._

Which helped, actually. The girl’s anger wasn’t violent or vengeful or brooding— it was the fury of a wounded creature growling to stave off further harm. 

The urge to help eclipsed Ahsoka’s anger. 

Slowly and gently, she gathered in her senses. In her mind’s eye she wove her way between towering trees, past psychic snares, prowling doubts, and pits filled with razor-sharp memories. Only once she reached the proud ruins at the center of it all did she open her flesh-and-blood eyes. 

She rolled her neck, and felt it pop. Stood. Placed her hand on the door panel. 

A pulse of light checked her handprint. A lightning-fast needle-prick checked her DNA. A whirr and a clunk unlocked the door. The press of a button opened it. 

Ahsoka sat down again— this time on the foot of the cot she’d bound the Inquisitor to. 

Rex and Sabine made good time though the ship. She marched in first, bucket off, boots heavy on the deck, and Rex followed her in. 

They paused on the threshold. 

Stared for a minute.

When they looked at Ahsoka, it was with the same question on both their faces. 

_Why keep her alive?_

Ahsoka sighed. 

Considered how to lay this out. 

Then she met both their gazes, one after the other, to let them see the truth as she said: 

“Ravous is, or at least _was,_ Leia Organa.” 

Rex blinked. Sabine’s brow furrowed. 

Ahsoka didn’t need to Hear the Force to sense their confusion— confusion that stuck with Sabine even as Rex’s presence crackled with anger. 

“Not here,” she said, and got back up. A quick gesture lifted First Sister’s prosthetic arm off the floor between cots and into Ahsoka’s unbroken hand. 

It was heavier than she’d expected. 

Heavier than any honest doctor would put on a woman First Sister’s size. 

Sabine & Rex stood aside to let her out, and followed her to her cabin. When the door was shut behind them, Ahsoka sat on her bunk, laid the arm down, and looked them over. Rex knew lek-sign well enough to know when he had her attention, but Sabine needed to see it in her— 

“Organa as in _Bail_ Organa?”

—eyes. 

Ahsoka took solace in the fact that Sabine’s recognition probably came from the memorials that tended to crop up on Alliance bases. 

Hm. Maybe she’d be willing to do a mural… 

Ahsoka reigned in her thoughts, and nodded. 

“Leia was their adopted daughter,” she said. “His and Breha’s. Shortly before he died, Bail expressed an interest in the techniques I use to hide my presence from other Force-sensitives, _allegedly_ for the sake of any other survivors his agents might encounter. I might’ve taken that at face value, if he hadn’t steered an earlier conversation toward the subject of my childhood in the Temple. My earliest training. I began to suspect that either Leia or another child in the Aldera Palace was Force-sensitive, but by the time I could arrange a covert visit, it was too late. 

I sensed that there was more deceit beneath the ‘rebel attack’ story, but Alderaan was locked down; I had no way to investigate. Then, this morning, First Sister referred to Ravous as ‘the little girl she found on Alderaan.’ I sensed pride, devotion, and guilt, but not deceit. If one of the other palace kids was the Force-sensitive, the Empire would have left Leia on Alderaan as a puppet ruler. Hells, if she was Force-sensitive but not particularly _weaponizable_ , she’d still be of more use to them as a puppet than anything else. But they took her. And when I put this all together, the Force rang with truth.” 

Rex stared at her for a moment. 

Then he swore under his breath, and sat heavily on the tooka-scratched couch they’d thrifted on Socorro. 

Sabine leaned against the wall by the door and crossed her arms. 

Ahsoka braced her forearms on her knees. It sent a twinge through the wreck of her left hand. 

She considered her words again. It was all there, really, but she’d never actually voiced any of the pieces before. 

“Given Bail and Breha’s rebel connections,” she said slowly, feeling it out, “and given Sidious’ need to instill loyalty in his new apprentice, I think Ravous probably views First Sister as her rescuer, rather than her kidnapper. First Sister’s connection to the Dark Side has… _deepened,_ in the last three years, and she credits Ravous for that. Also, this arm is an arsenal with saber-proof plating— not saber-resistant, like Beskar, but saber- _proof._ Kriffing thing probably cost more than a flock of TIE fighters… and with Maul gone, Ravous is in charge of the Inquisition.” 

Rex frowned. “So… what, she’s Ravous’ favorite?” 

“It looks that way,” said Ahsoka. “She’s also the senior-most Inquisitor. I think the only reason she’s not Grand Inquisitor is that she’s too kriffing _effective_ to be wasted on an desk job— but the clearance she must have…” 

“Y’coulda just _said_ ‘she’s got intel we need.”

“I could’ve. But you deserve an explanation. Both of you.” 

He raised one salt-and-pepper brow. “Both of us?” 

“Malachor,” said Sabine. 

Ahsoka dipped her head in slow nod. “She took Ezra while I was fighting Ravous. I _will_ find out what they’ve done to him.” 

_And what they've made him do_ lingered in the air between them. 

“Ahsoka.” Rex again. “ _Both_ of us deserve?”

“It’s your ship too, Rex.” 

“You’re _keeping_ her here?” 

She glanced at Sabine, whose expression was neutral. 

“For transit to the new base, yes. Everyone else is prepping for a strike _and_ an evacuation at the same time,” Ahsoka told them. “Things are hectic enough without throwing an unstable darksider into the mix.”

That got a distant roll of thunder out of Rex. "I don't know, it looked like she got pretty mixed into the hangar."

Ahsoka met his gaze and held it, letting him see the resolve in her eyes. 

“The _Steela,”_ she said, “is one of the only ships in the fleet with this many biometric locks, and I’m the only one in the Alliance who’s successfully contained a darksider before.” 

“You have a soft spot for that darksider, too?” Sabine’s voice was flat. 

“Imagine Ketsu Onyo was enslaved and indoctrinated by the Empire.” 

“I’ve never _bridal-carried_ Ketsu.” 

Ahsoka smirked to cover the flare of discomfort she felt at that. “I mean, she _would_ probably bash in your bucket for trying…”

Sabine did _not_ smirk. 

“No,” Ahsoka admitted. “I didn’t have a soft spot for that Inquisitor.” 

Some of the thunder faded from Rex’s presence, and Ahsoka glanced over to see him giving her the It’s Not Your Fault look. 

She looked down at her hands. 

“First Sister has killed enough people today. I won’t endanger more by leaving her with a warden who’s not equipped to handle her. Or waste everyone’s time and energy by leaving her with an interrogator she has no reason to talk to.” 

For a long moment, Sabine just stared at her. Then she slumped slightly, and the tension went out of her face. 

“How are you doing?” She asked. 

Ahsoka shrugged, and found a new ache between her shoulder blades. “I’ve bounced back from worse than a firm handshake. Should be fine in a ten-day. ‘Til then, I have the Force.” 

“So does she.” 

“She’s got the _Dark Side,”_ said Rex. 

“The Dark Side has _her,”_ Ahsoka corrected. 

He nodded, attention on Sabine. “Double-edged blade. We’ve got a system.” 

The Mando gave each of them a searching look. 

“For the record,” she said, “I think this is kriffing stupid. But I trust you.” 

Ahsoka resisted the urge to get up and hug her. She could still sense the hurt, but she knew Sabine needed some time with it. Maybe she’d let her have her way with another wall. 

“How’s Luke?” She asked. 

“Physically?” Rex leaned further into the couch. “Fine. But he’s shinier than you were on Christophsis. In over his head.” 

Ahsoka’s left lek flicked agreement. “A lot has changed for him, very quickly.” 

Up went the eyebrow again. 

“Grew up on Tatooine, with family. Obi-Wan trained him. They all died within a few days of each other.”

Rex huffed. _“Haarchak._ I’ll have the Vode keep an eye on’im.” 

Good. They were experts at helping people through trauma without coming off clinical about it. 

“And Padmé?” She asked. 

“I think the kid’s fussing is the only thing keeping her in the medbay. Which she’s turned into her office.”

A tired smile pulled at Ahsoka’s lips and lekku. “‘Course she has.”

If Luke was anything like her _or_ Padme, he needed to keep busy right now. Caring for someone was probably the best way to do that. 

Ahsoka sort of envied him, for a moment. Padme had a battalion’s worth of issues, but at least she had a healthy stance on murder and slavery. 

At least he could use her birth name without hurting. 

Ahsoka took a steadying breath. 

Then she laid a hand on the cold metal bicep of First’s detached arm, and cast out her senses, listening for the telltale buzz of… 

There. 

Must’ve activated when she detached the thing. 

“I need to talk to command,” she said. 

Rex huffed. Rubbed a hand over his face. “Yeah. I’ll get the ship ready.” 

Sabine stared at the floor between them for a beat. Then she nodded tersely, turned on her heel, and stepped out. 

Ahsoka reached beyond herself and nudged at the tiny buzz, frying the circuits of the tracker hidden inside First Sister’s arm. 

  
  
  
  


*******

  
  


**Recovery Ward, Medbay 1C**

**Base One - Yavin 4**

Luke wished he’d known his mom sooner. Maybe then he’d have some idea how to help her right now. 

Her fingers flew over the array of datapads laid out across her bed, tapping and swiping almost too quickly for Luke to keep track of. Half the time she wasn’t even _looking_ at the ‘pad she was typing on, and when she did pause to read something closely, her eye was sharp as a deadshot’s… but Luke had spent the last hour keeping himself anchored, so as to not get pulled into the storm of furious _misery_ inside her. 

How could she stay so _focused_ despite that? 

What would Ben have said about it? 

Anger might lead to hatred, but Luke was _pretty_ sure it was also the only thing keeping her going right now. 

Well, that and… whatever she was doing with eight different datapads at the same time. His chair was a bit too low to read what was on most of them, but every so often one locked itself and she had to give a thumbprint and eye-scan to _un_ lock it, so it must’ve been pretty important. 

How long could she keep this up, though? 

And what had she done to make the doctors _scared_ of her? 

He wondered if it had anything to do with her cybernetic eye. From the side, he had a clear view of the thick, glossy burn scar that ran horizontally from the metal to her hairline. 

Luke shivered. 

He’d been to Mos Espa enough to know what a blaster-scar looked like. Kriff, it was a miracle the eye was _all_ it took, clipping the socket like that. 

He sensed someone new step into the medbay— no, _march_ , someone… both familiar and not, somehow.

A second later he heard the clack of their boots, and hushed voices beyond the curtain—

“Come in,” said his mom, not looking up from her work. 

A brown-skinned hand curled around the edge of the curtain and swept it open for—

Doctor Billaba? But he was _dead,_ Luke saw him hit the… 

No. 

The Doctor didn’t have quite so many lines around his eyes, _or_ that much grey in his beard. Didn’t wear body armor, either, and there was something about the way he held himself that was slightly—

“Sir.” The man saluted. Stared at Luke. “Fierfek, it _is_ true. Guess he got your height, huh?” 

“Lieutenant Beviin,” mom said dryly, “this is my son, Luke. Luke, Lieutenant Kel Beviin, Alliance Infantry.” 

Okay, so maybe he was the Doc’s brother, but married into another— 

“Never met a Brother before?” Asked Beviin. 

What? 

The soldier narrowed his eyes. “Where you been hiding this one, General?” 

“Oh, has the rumor mill not filled you in yet?” Padme hadn’t looked up from the datapads, but there was a smirk on her face. 

He shrugged. “Worth a try.” 

She _did_ look up at that, with a calculating glint in her flesh-and-blood eye, and a sort of neutral, the-lights-are-a-little-too-bright-in-here glint on the lens of her other one. 

Then she went back to typing, and said: 

“Tatooine.” 

“Oh? Didn’t know we had any safehouses out that way…”

“Quit while you’re ahead, soldier.” 

“Yessir.” He saluted again, a smirk in his eyes and in his aura, and slipped the large, beige rucksack he’d been lugging off his shoulder. “Got your recs.” 

There was a rectangle of dull silver metal riveted to the outermost compartment, engraved with the name _SKYWALKER._

“Thank you, Lieutenant. Luke, you’ll want to familiarize yourself with the contents.”

Luke didn’t realize how long he’d been sitting until he wasn’t anymore, muscles aching where they’d been pressed into cushionless plastoid for… two hours? Three? 

He took the rucksack, and put one foot forward to compensate for the unexpected weight of it. 

Beviin’s brows rose in mild surprise. “Sturdier than you look. Good.” 

Something about that irked Luke. 

“This is nothing,” he said. “Be— my uncle used t’have me hike uphill with a bag of rocks twice a week.” 

The lieutenant crossed his arms. “Uncle, huh?” 

“Yes,” said Mom, “I imagine the gender narrows it down, doesn’t it?” 

“A bit,” said Beviin. “Not quite enough t’win any bets, though…” 

Luke sat back down with the rucksack between his knees, frowning. “Mom… why does this need to be a secret?”

She hesitated, then. For a long moment— stared at the datapad in her hands, took a controlled breath, laid the ‘pad down on her lap… 

And when she looked him in the eye, there was a sort of… _stiffness_ about her. 

“Until I introduced you to the Doctor earlier,” she said, “the rumor of my involvement with your father was just that— a rumor, and an old one.”

...what? 

“Why?” he asked. 

“Do you know what they used to call him?” 

“...Hero With No Fear?” 

Her expression twisted like she’d smelled something bad— but only for an instant.

“There’s a statue of him in the Imperial Plaza one hundred meters tall, planting the imperial flag atop a mound of lightsaber hilts.” 

Luke’s stomach twisted. 

“‘The Last Jedi’,” she said. “That’s what they call him now. The Empire’s first martyr, who gave his life to put an end to the corrupt Jedi Order. I can count on one hand those of us who know the full truth.” 

“What—“ Luke’s thoughts couldn’t seem to line up right. “Why don’t you tell people?” 

She looked down at the ‘pad in her lap. “The damage is already done. His legacy speaks for itself.”

“But—“

“General,” said Beviin, “permission t’speak freely?” 

She stared at him for a beat, then nodded. 

Beviin turned to Luke, and asked: 

“You know what they call _her?”_

“The Voice of the Rebellion, right?” He didn’t know why he phrased it as a question. The name’d been echoing ‘round his brain since the moment Ben said it.

“Y’know what that means?”

He looked at his mom. “You… give speeches?”

“Yes,” she said. “I expose the crimes of the Empire, report on Rebel victories, and endeavor to inspire resistance. I also negotiate with allied cells— semi-independent resistance groups. That’s not _all_ I do —I am actually a General in the traditional sense— but it is the bulk of it. I am, for most intents and purposes, the public face of the Rebellion.” 

...and by introducing him as her son, she’d publically linked herself to a hero of the Empire. 

A _child-murderer._

Luke swallowed dryly. 

“Why?” He asked. “Why would you…?”

“So that you won’t have to live a lie.” 

He caught a dull throb of secondhand pain as she said that. 

“Luke…” she swallowed dryly, and paused to lift the canteen off the bedside med-cabinet and sip. “By this time tomorrow, everyone on this base will know your name, and be grappling with the fact that their moral figurehead—”

“General, you’re not just—” Beviin started, but she held up a hand. 

“—had an illicit affair with— with what your father was, by the end.”

...oh. 

“It will make them question my judgement, my priorities, and shake their trust both in me and with the rest of command, who they’ll assume already knew. Releasing the news of… your Uncle’s story right now would be a second blow to morale at a time when we need everyone as focused and determined as possible.”

Right. 

They weren’t talking about _Ben._ They were talking about Obi-Wan Kenobi, Jedi Master, _General_ Kenobi of the Third Systems Army— a hero who’d somehow survived the worst the galaxy could throw at him… only to die right before he could help the Rebellion. 

The place in Luke’s mind where their training bond had been was cold and silent. The warm, protective presence that’d been there for so long… 

He took a deep breath. 

_Death, yet the Force._

“My Uncle,” he said, “was a bigger part of my life than Anakin Skywalker will ever be.” 

Mom blinked. In the Force she felt both pained and pleased— and confused about feeling both. 

“I won’t ask you to keep him a secret any longer than necessary,” she said. 

“For morale,” said Luke, half to himself. “To control the narrative.” 

That caught Mom off guard. 

“...he taught you well,” she said softly. 

Luke braced himself against the sudden ache in his chest. 

“Yeah,” he managed. “Yeah he did.” 

Beviin crossed his arms. “Open the bag, jetiika.” 

Right. 

It took him a second to figure out the buckles and clasps, and under those was what looked like a waterproof seal, but soon he had it open, revealing a canteen and a thermos wedged in behind a roll of cloth that might’ve been a blanket, a medkit, a blaster and charge packs… 

“Outer pocket,” said the soldier. 

...and a small code cylinder on a loop of chain. 

“ID,” said his Mom, “and basic access codes. A lightsaber is all well and good for morale, but we _do_ have security protocols. Pull that out.” 

“What?” He glanced up at her. 

“The roll.”

Luke slid it free, hesitating when he found it _firmer_ than it looked, and knelt on the floor to unroll it— revealing a pile of oddly-shaped pieces of rigid material attached to elastic sleeves and straps… 

Armor. 

“Something your uncle may have… _neglected_ to teach you about,” said Mom, an odd note in her voice. “It may not fit perfectly, but it’s better than nothing.” 

Luke ran his fingers over the curve of what could only be a shoulder… thing, ID’d its counterpart, then looked over the rest— shin-guards attached to knee-guards, wrist-guards attached to elbow-guards, and tubular pieces for his thighs and upper arms. All were some kind of lightweight metal, coated in drab, unmarked grey polymer, smooth and cool to the touch. He wondered how much it’d cost the Rebellion to make. 

How much Ravous’ armor had cost the Empire. 

He got up and started putting it on before his brain could take that ball and run with it. 

The fact that Beviin was still standing there watching him, and that Beviin’s face looked _way_ too much like the dead Doctor’s face to not be related, was also distracting. 

“Is— is there something on my face?” It didn’t come out anywhere near as confidently as he’d been aiming for. 

The Lieutenant just crossed his arms. “You better get used t’ _this_ face, Skywalker. You’ll be seein’ a lot of it, and not all of us’ll take kindly t’the gawking.” 

“I—” _what?_

“He’s a clone,” said Mom. 

He…? 

Oh. 

_Oh!_

“Wait, do you know—” _Cody,_ he almost blurted— but Beviin suddenly had a keen, interested look in his eyes, and Mom had a warning in hers. 

Right. 

Morale. 

Narrative. 

Secrets. 

Something beeped. 

Beviin glanced down at his wristguard, and grunted. 

“Dodonna’s givin’ a briefing in ten,” he said. “Fighter squadrons.” 

What? 

Luke must’ve done something to show his excitement, because the first thing Mom did was look at him, wide-eyed for a second before that strong, neutral General Mask slipped into place. 

“Mom—”

_“No.”_

He froze at the sudden hardness in her voice— and then she froze too, and a pained expression crossed her face.

“Luke,” she said carefully, “you’re not a fighter pilot.” 

“But I _can_ fly. And I have the Force, that counts for a lot!” 

“More than experience?” 

“Well—” Kriff. “No, but—” 

“Have you ever flown an exoatmospheric craft?” 

“Mom—” 

“Have you ever flown in formation? Learned squadron tactics?” 

“The Force will help with that—” 

“Evaded enemy fighters while listening to your friends die over the comms?”

Luke flinched. 

“There are a dozen ways you can aid the Alliance,” she said.

No. 

_Decreed._

“This isn’t one of them— not yet.”

The truth of it rang like a silent bell, and Luke fumbled for words, but the Force… 

The Force was _pushing_ him. 

“Am I supposed to just sit here and do nothing?” 

“There is _plenty_ you can do to.” Oh, she was _fully_ in General-Mode now. “We need all the help we can get with the evacuation, and you and Ahsoka probably need to talk—”

“Can I at least go to the briefing?” 

Beviin _twitched_ in the corner of his eye, surprise radiating in the Force at hearing her interrupted. 

Padme wasn’t radiating anything. Her face was completely neutral, her emotions like the noise of a cantina heard through the ‘fresher wall… 

Luke fiddled with the straps of his shoulder-guards, just to avoid looking at the General Face. 

“What…” kriff, was this how the medics felt? No wonder they treaded so lightly with her. “What are the chances we take it out in time? The Death Star, I mean. Its weak spot must be pretty small for the Imps not t’have noticed, right? And we— the pilots, they’re gonna have to get past the defenses and bullseye it before the station gets a clear shot at us.” 

His Mom said nothing. Just watched him, unreadable. 

“We might all be dead in a few hours,” he said. “I want to at _least_ know what’s going on.” 

And that rang silently true as well, even as the her muffled emotions surged and stuttered before smoothing out again. 

Still, she said nothing… but the General-Mask slipped, just slightly, and Luke caught a glimpse of that same look Ahsoka had given him— intent and searching, like she was trying to memorize his face.

Beviin shifted his weight slightly. “I can escort’im t’the briefing, Sir. Make sure he doesn’t get lost in the scrum.” 

For a long moment, she just watched him. 

Then she blinked, flesh-and-blood eye shining, and… sort of _drooped,_ back into the mound of pillows she’d propped herself up with. 

“Both of us,” she murmured. “So much like both of us.” 

Luke had no idea what to do with that. 

She looked like she was going to say something else— but just flicked one hand dismissively. 

Beviin’s heels snapped together. “With me, jettiika.” 

  
  


*

  
  


The briefing room was packed, pilots of every species in orange-and-white jumpsuits sitting on the floor, the chairs, and standing shoulder-to-shoulder along the duracrete walls, talking to each other in a dozen languages—

Until Luke walked in. 

One of the Wookiees spotted him first, and his friends noticed him looking, and nudged those next to them. Soon a hush fell over the room. 

Luke sensed curiosity, hostility, hope—

“Pretty, ain’t he?” Beviin’s voice boomed off the low ceiling, and several people looked away. “Don’t worry, you moon jockeys— plenty of time t’ogle his saber **_after_ ** you blow that eyesore out of the sky.” 

He nodded to the far wall, where a huge screen displayed a black-and-white schematic of the Death Star. Most of the oglers immediately snapped their heads around to look at it. 

Luke followed Beviin between the tightly packed rows of people, doing his best not to bump anybody, ‘til they found an unoccupied spot on the wall. 

“Thanks,” he muttered. 

Beviin just grunted. 

Luke’s ears were burning. 

His heart was pounding. 

The last time he had that many eyes on him, there were _blasters_ involved. 

All the whispers and murmurs stopped. 

Luke looked up in time to see a white-haired human man rise from his seat in the corner and walk toward the screen, head bowed in thought, hands clasped behind his back. Combined with the long, pale robe he was wearing… 

Luke exhaled his pain into the Force. 

“General Jan Dodonna,” Beviin murmured. “Rep Navy vet’, commander of Massassi Group since damn near the beginning. Prob’ly seen more battles than you’ve seen breakfasts.”

He had the feel of a man who was only half-joking. 

Dodonna stopped next to the screen, and raised his head to survey the pilots. 

“The Death Star,” he said, “is, by now, on its way here.” 

Silence. 

Then cloth rustling and chairs creaking as people shifted around, a few whispered swears, and… not as much fear or anger as Luke would’ve expected. 

It was there, filling the room like smoke, but not the wildfire’s worth that he’d felt on the Death Star— and clearer than the fear or anger was the focus. The determination _._

“Due to its sheer mass,” Dodonna continued, “and the forces required to move that mass, it will have to emerge from hyperspace no closer than sixty-five thousand klicks from Yavin and immediately decelerate. Furthermore, the most expedient route from the Naboo System will drop it on the far side of the planet. This gives us a window of approximately one hundred and seventy minutes in which to launch our assault.” 

Murmurs. Synthleather creaking as pilots leaned forward in their seats. 

Dodonna clicked something in his hand, and the schematics grew to fill the screen, closing in on a single square of the station’s surface, where at least a dozen red dots appeared. 

“The battle station is heavily shielded, and defended by more turbolasers than a fleet of Star Destroyers— as well as a compliment of between five and seven thousand TIE fighters, which are distributed equally among its twenty-four equatorial hangar bays.” 

Silence again. There was more frustration than anger, now, but the fear was louder. 

Another click, and the red dots disappeared as the viewpoint backed up again. Once the whole station was visible, more dots appeared along the line that ran across its middle. 

“Its defenses are designed to repel large-scale assaults— capital ships and the like. Single-pilot fighters will have the highest chances of penetrating the outer defenses.” 

A purple Twi’lek raised their hand. “Pardon me for asking, Sir, but what good are snub fighters going to be against _that?”_

Luke caught hints of annoyance, from more than one person, and figured they probably weren’t supposed to ask questions ‘til the end.

“Well, the Empire doesn’t consider small, one-man fighters much of threat to a station such as this… and they would be correct in that opinion, were it _not_ for the work of one of their chief engineers. One Galen Erso.” 

Recognition. Murmurs.

“Yes, some of you may have encountered his daughter Jyn.”

 _“Qu’elle soit avec la Force,”_ murmured a nearby Twi’lek. 

Luke blinked in surprise. 

_“...una flor que crece de la sangre,”_ someone else muttered. It had the rhythm of a prayer, or a mantra. 

A Wookiee growled mournfully. 

“Those who gave their lives at Scarif did not do so in vain,” said Dodonna. “Nor did you fight in vain, Knight Skywalker. These plans contain the one fatal weakness Galen Erso managed to place inside the station— a weakness uniquely vulnerable to a starfighter strike.”

The quiet was almost _heavy,_ now—

“Located in a narrow longitudinal trench near the station’s northern pole is a thermal exhaust port two meters wide.”

No one spoke as the display moved again, showing the trench as it would look to a pilot making a run…

And suddenly the growing fear and frustration were far away. 

The Force, for the first time Luke could remember, was completely silent. 

It was the silence of bated breath, of waiting for something to happen, of Ben watching him with a sad smile as he figured something out—

Like something was _important._

But he was already listening, so what… 

“That port connects to a shaft that leads directly to the station’s main reactor,” said Dodonna. “A precise hit will start a chain reaction which should destroy the station. Now, the shaft is ray-shielded, so you’ll have to use proton torpedoes.”

Onscreen, red brackets highlighted the exhaust port, and viewpoint stayed fix for a few seconds before resetting to the beginning of the attack run, swinging down into the trench almost like Luke would… 

Oh. 

Almost like he used to fly through Beggar’s Canyon. 

All the quiet noise and loud feelings of the room rushed back into his ears and mind— just in time for him to hear the man next to him mutter: 

“That’s impossible, even for a targeting computer.” 

The Force _nudged._

“It’s not impossible,” said Luke. “I used to bullseye womp-rats in my T-16 back home, and they’re not much bigger than two meters.” 

And then half the room was looking at them. 

Kriff. 

“Knight Skywalker,” said Dodonna. “You are a pilot?” 

“I’m—” _not a Knight,_ he almost said, but stopped himself for some reason. “Yes, Sir.” 

“And you’ve seen combat?”

Luke felt a sort of… _leaning in,_ at that, dozens of minds waiting for the answer— no, the _story._

Ben was always good at telling stories. Even when he really hadn’t wanted to be telling them. 

Luke wondered if Ahsoka could feel him dumping all this into the Force every few minutes. 

“Yes, Sir.” He said— and then, hesitantly, “but… not from a cockpit.” 

Dodonna just stared at him for a beat, a measuring look in his eye. 

“Do you dispute the claim that your battle precognition and reflexes were instrumental in rescuing General Amidala from the Death Star _without_ Alliance casualties?”

Luke wasn’t quite sure how he kept the bone-deep flinch off his face. 

Then again, Ben _wasn’t_ technically part of the Alliance. 

Hadn’t been. Part of the Alliance. 

Why was Dodonna interrupting the whole meeting for this? 

“Well,” he managed, “I mean, I just swung my ‘saber around, mostly. Wouldn’t have gotten far without the General calling the shots.”

“General Amidala is a cunning woman,” said Dodonna, “but she couldn’t have cut down a squadron of Death Troopers without so much as a scratch on her.” 

The last few people who _hadn’t_ been staring at him turned to look. Surprise and hope echoed in the Force. 

Ah. 

This was another morale thing. 

“No, Sir. That’s what I’m here for.” 

“Good man.” Dodonna looked at someone in the front row, and nodded. Then he turned his attention back to the room at large. “In order to make the most of our time and our odds, you will accelerate to attack speed before executing a hyperspace micro-jump to within ten klicks of the station.” 

Luke felt several people wince.

“Gold and Green Squadrons will then split off to thin out the surface defenses and keep enemy fighters busy while Red Squadron focuses on the primary objective. Once in the trench you will be safe from the surface batteries, but not from fighters, so keep it tight out there. Now, we have only rough estimates of how violent the station’s destabilization will be; as soon as we have a confirmed hit, you need to get as much distance as you can, as fast as you can. Questions?” 

A hand went up in the second row. 

“Yes, Captain Vander?”

“More of a _request_ than a question _,_ General.” 

“Go ahead.” 

“Please tell me you’re not gonna put the shiny in an X-Wing.” 

Shiny? 

“That is up to Red Leader’s judgement.” 

“Dreis,” Vander called across the room, “you know anything about Jedi? You ever flown with one?” 

Dodonna clasped his arms behind his back again. “Captain, this is not the time for—”

“I have.” 

The entire room turned to look— and not at Luke, this time.

Ahsoka stood in the doorway, looking out over the heads of everyone around her.

Without her cloak, the armor was bare. So were the two lightsabers on her belt. 

“Flown with Jedi, that is.” She crossed her arms, and leaned casually against the doorframe. “I’ll advise Red Leader.” 

Luke glanced back at Dodonna just in time to see him nod, gratitude in his eyes. “Are there any other questions?” 

No one spoke, anxiety and eagerness vibrating all around—

“Then report to your squadron leaders, and may the Force be with you.” 

—and then everyone was moving. Plastoid-weave flightsuits crinkled and rustled, boots squeaked, and chairs scraped as they were picked up and folded, passed from hand to hand and stacked against the walls with well-rehearsed speed— but instead of filing out, everyone more or less stayed put so that three men, who Luke figured must be squadron leaders, could make their way across the room. 

Two walked out the door. The third split off and came to Luke. 

“Skywalker.”

He was an older guy, though it was kinda hard to tell how much older without the deep tan or sun-wrinkles Luke was used to seeing on old folks, with short brown hair and a sort of kind openness in his face even as he frowned in thought. 

“...Red Leader?” Luke guessed. 

“Name’s Dreis.” He held out a gloved hand. “Garven Dreis. No need to worry ‘bout callsigns ‘less I clear you for active duty.” 

Right. “Of course.” 

Around them, the others started filing out. 

Dreis’ gaze skipped over Luke’s shoulder, looking up at—

“Tano,” he said. “Isn’t it?” 

“It is,” said Ahsoka, _right behind Luke._

He flinched. Hard.

“Sorry.” She looked down at him with an apologetic smile. “I’ve gotten used to masking my presence. I’ll work on it.” 

“Thought I recognized you.” Dreis crossed his arms. “Though I’m not exactly sure of your rank.”

“Just Tano is fine.” 

That obviously just made him more curious, but he didn’t press it. 

“Right, well. I’ve seen the same holos as the rest of the old GAR boys, and I’ve heard Dodonna’s stories, but…”

“Never seen a Jedi fly in person?”

“Or fight.” 

Ahsoka hummed thoughtfully. Turned her head slightly, not enough to look at the last few pilots shuffling out, but enough to show her awareness of them—

Then she opened her uninjured hand. 

The _snap_ of a button was all the warning they had before Dreis’ sidearm slapped into her grip and fired. 

The bolt bounced right off Luke’s saber and singed a spot on the far wall. 

_“Kark!”_ Dreis lurched back, eyes wide, grabbing at his now-empty thigh holster. “What the _kriff_ are you—“

“Demonstrating.” Ahsoka clicked the safety back on, flipped the blaster around in her hand, and handed it back to him grip-first. “How much time would you say Luke had to unclip his ‘saber, ignite it, and get it into the right position to deflect without hurting either of us?” 

Dreis frowned at her. “A second? Half a second?” 

Ahsoka shrugged. “Not enough.” 

“What.” 

“Battle precognition. Luke sensed the danger and had his ‘saber ready _before_ I actually pulled the trigger.” She glanced at his lightsaber, and he switched it off. Clipped it back onto his belt. 

“The same principle works just as well with a starfighter. When trained Force-sensitives do get shot down, it’s either because they got distracted or were so outnumbered that their precognition didn’t matter. And seeing as the trench will box in the enemy just as much as it will our pilots, there’s little to no danger of the latter.” 

Dreis blinked at her, caught off-guard. Shifted his weight side to side. “Alright, that’s… certainly impressive, but it takes more than reflexes to make a fighter pilot.”

“It does,” said Ahsoka, with a slight nod. “And while the Force would keep Luke aware of the position of his wingmen, it can’t teach him maneuvers.”

“Then I can’t in good conscience bring him into my squadron.” 

“So don’t.” 

Luke’s heart dropped into his stomach. “Ahsoka—” 

She laid her good hand on his shoulder. Met his eyes. 

“I feel it too, Luke.” 

There was something… kinda _intense_ about holding eye contact with her, beyond the color contrast or the feel of her attention in the Force. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. 

“But rushing in will only invite disaster. What do you know about X-Wings?”

“Um.” He blinked at the sudden topic-change. “Thirteen point four meters long, eleven point seven six wide, two point four high, titanium alloy hull, most commonly fitted with Incom 4L4 fusial thrust engines capable of 100 megalights in vacuum and a Koensayr GBk-585 hyperdrive, sensors are… okay, that depends on— on supply chains and stuff, couldn’t find it on the holonet, but the targeting system’s probably Fabritech, and I’m pretty sure I saw KX9s mounted on the foils when I was in the hangar earlier—” 

“Stop.” Ahsoka was smiling. “Good.” 

Dreis looked surprised. And conflicted. “Tano…”

“Don’t put him in a squadron,” she said. “Treat him like a bomber.” 

“Are you—” Dreis paused. Frowned. “...explain.” 

“This isn’t a standard flyby. If one of those torpedoes so much as clips the edges of the port or the walls of the shaft it’s no good, and your pilots will have to make that shot while moving hundreds of meters per second. Unless Syndulla gets back in the next few hours, Luke is your best chance of this not being a complete disaster. He doesn’t know squadron maneuvers, so don’t _put_ him in a squadron— put him in an X-Wing and have him _follow_ your squadron in for the trench run.” 

“He’ll get _swarmed.”_

“They’ll _try_ to swarm him, and while he’s slipping out of their firing solutions like a sleen, Gold and Green can thin them out.” 

The squadron leader just stared at her for a minute. Stared _up_ at her, technically. 

Luke wondered what she seemed like to people who couldn’t sense her kindness in the Force. The Wookiees here were probably the only species that outsized her across the board. And without the cloak, he could see all scratches in the pain of her armor, the slight discoloration where she’d scrubbed away blaster-burns, the half-melted ring where the Inquisitor must’ve tried to stab her in the thigh… 

“You’ve gotten drunk with Dodonna,” she said. “Did you think he was exaggerating?”

Dreis’ expression got a little pinched. “Please don’t read my mind.” 

“If I _was_ capable of true mind-reading, it’s not something I would do to my allies. All I’m sensing is your surface emotions.” 

“Can you not?”

She smiled in a way that sort of reminded Luke of Han. “Tell you what, Commander— we live to see tomorrow, I’ll teach you to shield your mind from Force-sensitives.” 

“You trying to change the subject on me, Tano?”

“I’ll make it a seminar.” 

Dreis glanced at the door. “I don’t see what Dodonna’s stories have got t’do with anything. The Jedi weren’t hurting for resources back then. They have billion-cred flight simulators on Tatooine, Skywalker?” 

“Commander.” The cocky smile dropped off Ahsoka’s face like it was never there. She crossed her arms behind her back. “You know as well as I do that we need all the pilots we can get. You don’t want to take my word here? Then run him through the simulator.”

Dreis frowned. “We haven’t packed that up yet?” 

“We’ve been convinced we might need it a bit longer.” 

His eyes narrowed. 

Ahsoka patted Luke’s shoulder-guard. “The Force is very loud about this one.” 

“...I need to prep my squadron.” 

“Well yeah, do that first.” 

Luke could almost _see_ the questions brimming under the guy’s skin. “Kark mind-lessons. We make it through this, you come drinking with the squadron.” 

The cocky smile came back. “You think a few drinks’ll make me spill my secrets?” 

“Fek no. But this is fifteen adrenaline-high pilots we’re talking about, I’m not gonna subject a shiny to that?” 

“You want to be king of the scuttlebutt.” 

“Come on. Return of the Jedi? They need it. We all do.”

“I’m not a Jedi.” 

Dreis raised an eyebrow. Glanced at her saber-hilts, then at Luke’s. “You’ve flown with’em.” 

Ahsoka sighed. “You’ll test him?” 

“I will."

“Thank you.” 

He shrugged. “Said it yourself. We need pilots.” 

Then he turned to Luke. 

“Follow me, kid.” 

*

  
  


Ahsoka was smiling when he stepped out of the flight-sim, but her eyes were sad. 

Half of Red Squadron was excited, hopeful even. The other half mostly seemed surprised, confused, and _maybe_ a bit jealous? 

Between the two, and all the back-thumping and questioning and ‘advice’ (which they seemed to just use as an excuse for pit humor), she slipped away unnoticed. 

Luke _really_ needed to learn how to sneak like that. 

At some point between them teaching him how to put on a flight suit and filing back toward the hangar, Threepio showed up, which led to Red Squadron trying to wheedle info out of him, which led to them listening to him go on about how fascinating the fusional vernacular of the Vod’e was, which considering what Mom said about controlling the release of secrets… 

Luke was starting to think Threepio might be quicker on the uptake than he let on. 

Anyhow, he’d managed to get the droid to translate Vod’e to brothers, which Red Four —the purple Twi’lek named Elar— said really meant _clones,_ when he turned a corner to find Han and Chewie loading supplies onto a hovercart. 

Not making eye contact with anyone. 

Withdrawn in the Force. 

Luke was talking before he could really think about what he wanted to say. 

“So. You got your reward and you’re just leaving, then?”

Han paused with his hands on a crate of rations. 

“That’s right, yeah.” He barely even looked Luke in the eye before lifting the crate, and turning away to put it on the stack. “I got some old debts I gotta pay off.”

Picked up another box. 

“Even if I didn’t, you don’t think I’d be fool enough t’stick around here, do ya?” 

Something about that felt false to Luke, but—

“Why don’t you come with us?” Han finally stopped, and really looked at him. “You’re pretty good in a fight. Could use you.” 

_Pretty good?_ If it weren’t for his ‘saber skills, they’d all be shot full—

No. Not important. 

“Come _on,”_ said Luke. “Why don’t you take a look around? You know what’s about to happen, what they’re up against— we could use _you.”_ He wet his lips, glanced away— “You’re a good pilot.” 

“Oh, _now_ you’re admitting it?” Han smirked that cocky smirk, but went back to stacking crates. Then, serious again: “I know exactly what they’re up against, kid. Hell, I know better than _them._ Can’t pay me enough for a suicide mission.” 

Luke just stared at him for a second. 

Everything they’d been through together, and he just—? 

“Alright,” he bit out. “Well take care of yourself, Han. I guess it’s what you’re best at, isn’t it?” 

Stupid. 

He turned on his heel and started walking toward where the X-Wings were lined up.

_Emotion yet peace, passion yet serenity…_

“Hey.” Han’s voice was… different. Less confident than he’d ever heard it. “May the Force be with ya.” 

Luke could feel him relaxing, just slightly. Opening up. 

And still _leaving._

What the kark?

Luke just nodded, and walked into the hangar. 

It was loud, now. Sure, clashing ‘sabers weren’t exactly quiet, but two people, even radiating all sorts of passion into the Force, were quiet compared to the dozens in here now. They’d cleaned up most of the damage, but no one could’ve missed that a duel happened here. There were still black arcs on the floor where one lightsaber or another had gone low, and _cracks_ where the fight had ended. One of the X-Wings was _missing_ a wing, and there were mechanics swarming the side of a cargo shuttle, welding new plating over what must’ve been even more saber-damage. 

Luke stepped out of the way of a hover-trolley and walked around the repair crew, which took him under the wing of another shuttle. He reached up to run his fingers along it—

_“Luke!”_

He paused, looking around. That _couldn’t_ be—

_“Luke Skywalker!”_

But then he turned toward the voice, and it _was._

_“Biggs??”_

Biggs Darklighter came jogging up, life support box bouncing on the vest of his flight suit and a huge grin on his face. 

“I don’t believe it!” He held his arms out for a hug, and Luke all but body-slammed into it. “How are ya?”

“How am I? How are _you??”_ Luke pulled back to take in the sight of him. Away from the Tatooine suns, his hair had gotten darker, and his skin paler, but there was a brightness in his eyes and his Presence that hadn’t been there before. “You— you defected from the Academy?” 

“Tame compared to storming an imp station, I know.” 

“No, that’s not—” He shook his head, grinning— and paused when he saw Bigg’s eying his ‘saber. 

Because of course he would. He’d never _seen_ it before. 

“I wanted to tell you,” he blurted. “I wanted to tell you, but—” 

“Luke.” He hooked an arm over Luke’s shoulders and turned, steering him toward Red Squadron’s fighters. “I spent seven months in an Imperial Academy. I know why you didn’t tell me. Hells, I’m _glad_ you didn’t. If I’d known you were a karking Jedi five years ago, I wouldn’ta been able to keep my mouth shut about it!” 

“You’re not angry?” 

Biggs chuckled. “Oh, don’t get me wrong, you’re gonna tell me _everything_ once we get back. Frix brews this _brutal_ Rylothi moonshine —well, _he_ says it’s Rylothi, Elar says otherwise, even though she’s not actually _from_ Ryloth, but—” 

The lights started flashing a split second before the alarms blared. 

Luke barely noticed through the sudden wave of cold that’d rushed over him. 

“All pilots to your ships! All pilots to your ship! The Death Star has emerged from hyperspace on the far side of the planet.” 

And that much was true. Luke could feel the crystals trapped in its core, screaming in pain and horror at what they’d been forced to do—

But the hatred was louder. Heavier. Colder. So cold it _burned._

And achingly familiar.

He and Biggs ran for their fighters, hugging each other tight before they split up, deadly focus spreading through the base around them… but as Luke climbed into the cockpit of a real starfighter for the first time, he didn't feel excited. He _couldn't._

Ravous, Leia, _sister—_

Whoever she really was, whatever she wanted to be called, she was aboard the station. 

And everyone was counting on him to destroy it. 

A little bit of that cold slithered into his gut. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *this is a fanon Mando philosophy written by Blue_Sunshine, author of The Desert Storm, one of my all-time favorite SW fics. Go read it if you haven't already!
> 
> I figure Ahsoka's probably undergone a pretty big shift in outlook and philosophy since her time as a Jedi. The Code and its supporting ideology were no better suited to war than the Order itself was; certain aspects of Mando culture would be a lot more useful for a intelligence operative/Anti-inquisitor.


End file.
